The Ice Within
by Fantabulous Fantabulism
Summary: Elsa grew in solitude and secrecy, shut out from the world in fear of the power within her. For her son, she vowed a different life, one of freedom and control. But fate has never been the kindest of mistresses, and fear and hatred have always been the most powerful and volatile of demons. In a world of uncertainty, the Crown Prince will find the storms of the past never abated...
1. The Dead of Night

_**WARNING: This chapter contains scenes of childbirth. Although not overly graphic, such scenes may be aversive to some.**_

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_This is the story of a boy named Thomas of Arendelle, son of King Henrik and Queen Elsa. In time, Prince Thomas will face love and sorrow, defeat and triumph. In time, this boy will become a man both feared and revered, loved and hated. In time. But as with all good stories, this one begins in the beginning…_

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**Chapter 1: The Dead of Night**

All was quiet in the Kingdom of Arendelle. The streets were empty, the people quiet in their dwellings, the shops and stores all closed for the night. Excepting a few pubs and hotels that still bustled with the awake, the town presided in the deep silence of slumber.

But on this particular night, the calm was broken. All through the vast corridors of the castle of Arendelle echoed a woman's shrill, laboured cries. The Queen was giving birth. In the royal bedchamber, Queen Elsa of Arendelle writhed in the throes of labour, the entire bed frame beneath her trembling from her exertion. At her side kneeled her husband; at the foot of the bed stooped the midwife.

_Nothing is ever easy with Elsa_, thought King Henrik, with no small degree of fondness. From the beginning of their courtship, the Queen had always been a hard nut to crack. Indeed, it had taken a full three months even for formalities to be dropped between the two, and a full three _years_ before Elsa had conceided to marriage…

The King was snapped from his reverie by yet another blood-curdling scream from his wife. Gripping Elsa's hand in his own, he whispered words of comfort to the Queen as she endured contraction after contraction. The bedpost over which Elsa's other hand was fiercely clenched crackled and groaned as tendrils of frost etched patterns onto the wood. The King mentally praised his wife for her astonishing control even in such a situation. A full-blown blizzard would have been expected given the Queen's condition, but Elsa had managed to keep her powers in check throughout the ordeal.

Thinking back, Henrik had never feared Elsa's abilities. Where others saw a frigid darkness, he had seen strength and power; where others saw a wicked sorceress, he had seen an artist with unparalleled beauty and love. While people were wary of the Snow Queen, Elsa's powers had only added to Henrik's infatuation. Her platinum blonde hair, ice-blue eyes, and cool alabaster skin captivated the former prince the instant he laid eyes on her. In time, their relationship had blossomed into a glorious romance.

Thus reminiscing his courtship of the Queen, King Henrik stood vigil at the bedside as Elsa laboured on through the night.

The crack of dawn was heralded by the faint cries of a newborn child. After wrapping the baby in a blanket, the midwife handed the precious bundle to the triumphant royals.

"It's a boy, Majesties".

Elsa took the child almost reverently into her arms, smiling tentatively down upon her son.

"I did it". Elsa's voice shook with fatigue.

"I never had a doubt in my mind", said Henrik, though his own smile shone with gratitude.

A pause. Elsa sighed.

"I never thought this moment would come". At this, Elsa's voice trembled with more than just tiredness. "I'd resigned myself to a life of solitude as a child, and yet… Here I am, a mother. If only my parents could see me now…"

"You don't give yourself enough credit", whispered the King. "As long as I live, you will never be alone".

Another pause. "What shall we name him?"

Henrik mused over the question, fingers stroking his short beard.

"Thomas, after my late grandfather. A strong, proud man, he was".

"Thomas". The Queen smiled, testing the name on her tongue.

_Thomas._

"Crown Prince Thomas of Arendelle".


	2. The Crown Prince

_**Disclaimer: Frozen and its characters are property of Disney.**_

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**Chapter 2: The Crown Prince**

Not two seconds after the statement had left her lips, Elsa heard an all too familiar squeal from behind the doors of the bedchamber. Henrik and the midwife also turned towards the doors, knowing all too well the source of the noise. Within a heartbeat, in burst Princess Anna, her husband Kristoff in tow.

"Congratulations Elsa! You're a mother!" exclaimed the exuberant redhead, beaming as she practically flew towards her older sister. "Ha! I told you it was going to be a boy!"

The royal couple smiled at the energetic woman.

"Presenting his Royal Highness, Crown Prince Thomas of Arendelle!" proclaimed Henrik a pompous official voice, gesturing grandly at the baby nestled in the crook of Elsa's arm.

As if noticing him for the first time, Anna stared at her nephew in awe. "Wow, is this the baby prince? He's so _small!_ So precious!" Clapping her hands with barely controlled glee, the bouncing younger sister held her arms out towards the Queen. "Lemme hold him!"

Elsa turned her body away from Anna, protectively shielding her child with an arm. "Promise you won't drop him?" she asked icily.

Anna gasped, placing a hand over her heart for dramatic effect. "_Elsa_! I'm hurt! I have two children of my own you know! I should know how to hold a baby!"

"Actually, I should have you know that I held the children for the most part", muttered Kristoff from the other side of the bed.

"You're not helping!" called Anna, shooting a pointed glare at her husband.

"Alright, alright, I'll have to let you hold him eventually anyway", Elsa relented, a hint of humor in her voice. She gingerly handed the baby to her sister.

"Ooh, look at you!" Anna cooed, tickling the baby's stomach. At that, the child opened its eyes and fixed Anna with a surprisingly piercing slate-gray stare. "Hi little guy! I'm your aunt Anna! We're gonna have lots of fun together, you and I!"

Elsa snorted. "What, are your two children not enough?"

Anna stuck her tongue at her sister. "I'll have you know that it's not queenly to snort."

Walking over to Henrik, she held up the child for him to see. "Look! He has your eyes!"

"Indeed, it seems he does!" smiled the King, taking his son into his arms.

"Hmm… I wonder what colour _hair_ he'll have", Anna mused.

At that moment, the door handle turned again to reveal two young children and a familiar snowman.

"Annabeth, Christopher! I told you to wait outside!"

The midwife, who had remained silent throughout the entire conversation, finally spoke up.

"Highnesses, I think it would be best for you to continue this another time. The Queen is, after all, very tired from her ordeal."

"Truly", said Elsa, as she adjusted herself into a position better suited for sleeping.

Kristoff scooped up both his children, one in each arm. "Alright, Aunt Elsa needs her rest."

"Oh, I'm so sorry for keeping you up!" Anna apologized, as she began to follow her husband out the door.

"Ah, it's quite alright. Although, how you endured this _twice_ is beyond me…" And with that, the Queen closed her eyes.

* * *

Elsa awoke to darkness. Looking about the bedchamber, she found it empty and silent. It was then that the reality hit her anew. She was a mother. The Queen closed her eyes again, savouring the feeling. Ever since that fateful night on their honeymoon, she had known this day would come, but now it was so much more genuine.

She was a mother.

The sound of the door handle brought Elsa back to earth.

"Is she awake?"

Henrik's voice. Elsa raised her head above the cushions.

"It would appear so", said another familiar voice, and in walked the King and the royal family's most trusted servant, Kai.

"How are you feeling?" asked Henrik.

"Tired, but well-rested", Elsa smiled back.

"Your Majesty, pardon the interruption, but the our physician insisted on performing a physical examination to ensure your wellness", explained Kai, as he stepped aside to reveal an older man at the door.

"Your Majesty, Physician Simone Wellingdon at your service." He bowed low. "Your health is of the utmost importance."

The Queen focussed her eyes upon the petite man. "Never mind me, what of my son? Is he well?"

"Ah, yes, I'd examined him yesterday. A beacon of good health, I assure you." The physician began polishing his spectacles.

"Wait, yesterday?" Elsa considered the man's words. "Henrik, how long was I asleep for?"

"It is now midnight of the next day, love," said the King, gesturing to the small grandfather clock on the wall. As if the accentuate the fact, the faraway Church bells tolled twelve times.

At this, Elsa was no longer so calm. "I've been asleep for the whole _day_?!" Her hands flew to her hair. "Oh, I'm so behind! I've missed my meeting with the Duchess of Witherton, and there's still the matter of those trade documents for Corona that need done!..." This was accompanied by a noticeable drop in temperature, and frost began to creep up the walls.

Suddenly, a hand had taken the Queen's. "Elsa, calm. Everything has been taken care of. I'm more than capable of running the Kingdom for a day you know," the King soothed his wife. "You work yourself far too hard as it is, and you've the most legitimate reason any woman could possibly have for taking some time off."

"Ahem, speaking of which..." All heads turned to the physician. "I should probably get Her Majesty's examination underway." The man donned his spectacles. Pulling the covers off Elsa's legs, he turned to the servant and the King. "You gentlemen may wish to avert your eyes."

A short ten minutes later, the Queen was dressed in a clean silken nightgown and was situated back in the bed. The physician handed Elsa's old clothes in a bundle to Kai. "Take these to be laundered." The aged servant raised a brow at the order, but at a nod from the King, he bowed and left the bedchamber.

"So, doctor, what is the verdict?" asked Henrik, concern showing on his face.

"Her Majesty is making a quick recovery from her recent birth." The physician folded his spectacles and placed them in his breast pocket. "All seems to be in good order… well, excepting the, ah, usual anomalies."

"Excuse me?" Elsa narrowed her eyes.

The older man cleared his throat. "Ah, body temperature, Majesty?" It was more of a question than a statement.

Elsa frowned, remembering times in a darker past when physicians such as Simone had scrutinized her for her abnormalities. The Snow Queen exhaled. "Very well, you are dismissed."

The physician bowed respectfully and took his leave.

The King turned to his beloved, easing himself onto the bed beside her. "Your cold never bothered _me_, my love." Elsa smiled. How long had she wished for this? For acceptance, for love? And here he was, all her dreams come to life in one man. The Queen wrapped her arms around her husband, giving him a peck on the lips.

"Good night."

"Good night, love."

* * *

Alas, there was little family time to be had the next day. As per tradition for a royal birth, an official proclamation was scheduled, a chance for the people of Arendelle to catch a glimpse of the heir to the crown and throne.

Indeed, the day was truly a busy one. Invitations were sent to all four corners of the Kingdom of Arendelle, the courtyard readied for the arrival of the people. The Queen, with no small measure of guilt, left her son in the care of the maids and her sister for most of the day.

"Aren't we lucky to still have a few nursemaids around?" Anna asked happily.

The sigh slipped between Elsa's lips on its own accord. "Anna, I'd hired a new group a month ago! Did you seriously think I was unprepared?"

Due to the Open Gates policy, the courtyard was packed hours before the great reveal. The citizens were all very excited, gossiping about the new addition to the royal family, and the possibilities he provided for the future of the Kingdom.

Minutes from the proclamation, the royal family stood ready behind the closed doors of the balcony. Henrik cradled the little prince in his arms, unable to resist tickling the boy under his chin every once in a while. Elsa stood at her husband's side, back ramrod straight, both hand clasped regally before her. Anna and Kristoff were behind them, their two children running gleefully about the room, chasing the snowflakes falling from a cloud above the head of a very lively snowman. Kai was also present, ready to announce the royals as they stepped out onto the balcony. Outside, two royal trumpets flanked the closed doors.

Alas, even after seven years of the people's acceptance, the Queen still was not as at ease about public events as she wished to be. It was at moments such as these that the scared little girl threatened to resurface; the part of Elsa that wanted to run back to her room, lock the door, and shut out the world. "Conceal, don't feel," she muttered under her breath.

A hand came to rest upon her shoulder. "No, Elsa," Anna's soulful eyes locked with her sister's. She slid her hand down Elsa's arm, finally grabbing hold of the Queen's hand with her own. "Never again."

Elsa gave her sister a grateful smile. No matter what happened, Anna would always be there. The Snow Queen would never be alone. Never again.

The Church bells tolled. Everyone snapped to attention, taking their positions as the trumpets blew a grand fanfare. Kai opened the doors. Walking out onto the balcony, the servant began announcing the royal family in its entirety.

"Presenting, Her Majesty the Queen, Elsa of Arendelle!" Elsa took a deep breath and walked forward,

forcing herself to take smooth, reserved steps, looking every inch the Queen she was.

"Her Royal Highness, Princess Anna of Arendelle!" Anna bounced forward with much less restraint, a wide grin practically shining from her features.

"The Royal Ice Master and Deliverer, Mister Kristoff Bjorgman!" With a sheepish smile on his face, Kristoff stepped up to join his wife.

"Prince Christopher Bjorgman and Princess Annabeth Bjorgman!" The children bounced onto the balcony, Olaf in tow.

"His Majesty the King, Henrik of Arendelle! And last, but certainly not least, Crown Prince Thomas of Arendelle!" The King stepped onto the balcony, cradling the newborn heir. This time, the trumpets were accompanied by the cheers and applause of the audience.

When the crowd had settled down, the King stepped forward and began his speech. "People of Arendelle! We are gathered here today for a truly momentous occasion! The Queen has born a child, the healthy boy you see before you! My loyal subjects, behold the heir to the throne, Crown Prince Thomas of Arendelle!"

Henrik held his son up high above his head for all to see. The little prince looked mutely upon the cheering crowd, as if dumbfounded by the noise of it all. Beside him, Elsa threw her hands up towards the afternoon sky, celebratory flurries of snow falling upon the courtyard. Annabeth and Christopher jumped about, giggling as they caught snowflakes on their hands and tongues. Anna and Kristoff smiled upon their children.

Unbeknownst to all, a single snowflake fluttered from Thomas' open palm.

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_**I hope you enjoyed Chapter 2! What do you think? Reviews please!**_


	3. Fractals in Time

_**Disclaimer: My characters are mine; my plot is mine. Disney takes the rest.**_

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**Chapter 3: Fractals in Time**

As little Tom grew, so did his presence in Arendelle Castle. From week one, the boy proved himself to be a quiet baby, hardly ever crying unless to notify his caretakers of his hunger—or that he had soiled himself. Anna and Kristoff's children quickly formed a bond with the little prince, and one would often times find the two by the crib, talking animately to the ever silent baby. Olaf would accompany the trio most of the time, playing with them whilst chattering incessantly, and just being a jolly little snowman in general.

At week four, Thomas began to grow more restless, tossing and turning in the crib, sometimes crying for no apparent reason. Elsa began to spend nights with her child, drawing glowing patterns of snow and frost to lull the baby to sleep. It was on one such night that the Queen, while focussing on a particularly detailed snowflake, heard a gurgle from Thomas in the crib. It was thus that the little prince learned to laugh.

Week ten, and Thomas had begun to grow a mop of startling platinum-blonde hair. Although the King and Queen were pleased at the child's development, Anna was not. "What respectable man has _platinum-blonde_ hair?" she exclaimed. To prove her point, the younger sister took one of Henrik's portraits and painted the King's dark brown hair what _she_ thought was a good impression of platinum-blonde. Unfortunately, the princess was not renowned for her artistic talent. Naturally, Anna was very pleased with herself when she managed to sneak into the royal bedchamber without waking the Queen and place the doctored portrait in front of the mirror. She was notably less pleased when she discovered her mattress frozen solid the night after.

Five months after birth, little Thomas began enunciating. Although it started with unimpressive gurgling and squealing, within two weeks the baby had learned the magic word.

"Muh….ma….ma….mama!"

Elsa pronounced it the happiest moment of her life, while a sullen Henrik grumbled about how "the mother always gets the recognition."

By the seventh month, the child was no longer satisfied with the confines of his room. At the utter fascination of Annabeth, Christopher, and Olaf, Thomas began to learn to crawl. From the first tentative "steps", Thomas had the most avid teachers imaginable. Anna and Kristoff would often find their children down on their hands and knees, teaching the crown prince the fine intricacies of quadrupedal locomotion. When he finally did learn to crawl with proficiency, the little prince took to roaming the halls with Annabeth and Christopher (by that point, Thomas had learned his cousins' names: "Anna" and "Chris"), accompanying them as far as his limbs could hold out.

It was in his tenth month, however, that little Tom made his most monumental development of all.

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It was a hot summer's day. The Queen and King were engaged in a diplomatic meeting with yet _another_ ambassador from Weselton, leaving Thomas in the care of Anna and Kristoff. With the Snow Queen too busy to play and Olaf nowhere in sight, the children quickly grew hot and very bothered.

"Mama! Too hot!" moaned Christopher from his position on the hardwood floor.

"I'm gonna melt like… like daddy's ice!" Annabeth slumped into the rocking chair in the corner. Kristoff raised his hands in a gesture of peace.

"I'm all sold out, I got none to spare! And it's no great wonder why people would be needing it today…"

Anna was feeling very hot and sticky herself. "Oh, it almost makes Elsa's Great Freeze seem like a paradise! All that cool ice and snow… I'll bet the Queen's not even bothered by the heat!" And with that, she launched into a huge monologue, mostly detailing how unfair it was that her sister had ice powers while Anna was stuck in the sweltering heat with nothing but her sweat to cool her.

Throughout the whole exchange, little Tom was seated in the centre of the floor, seemingly unfazed by the heat, playing with several wooden blocks. Had anyone taken notice of the little prince, they would have been surprised to see not a single bead of sweat upon the boy's skin. Had they moved in closer to the child, they would have been even more surprised to discover how cold the air was around him. Alas, the aunt, uncle, and cousins paid little attention to Thomas due to their discomfort.

Finally, Anna could take no more. "Alright! I can't stand this heat a moment longer! Kristoff, get Sven hooked to the carriage. We're going to the Wading Pool. Right now. Right this second."

A few minutes later, a reindeer pulling a small carriage cantered through the streets of Arendelle. Kristoff, guiding Sven, took the familiar mountain path into the forest. Through the forest flowed a stream, carrying meltwater from the high peaks above. The stream in question was a playful, lively thing, bubbling over its bed of rocks with fervor and apparent delight. At one point, not far from the path, the stream flowed into a shallow depression in the rocky landscape, forming a small pond. This pond Anna had dubbed the "Wading Pool", and the royal family often took their children up here to play in the water. The pool was five metres at its widest point, and had a maximum depth of one, and thus presented little threat of drowning to the young children.

Stopping the carriage, Kristoff helped his wife, children, and nephew disembark. Anna and her kids ran gleefully to the pool, jumping in and immediately commencing to splash each other with the cold, pure water. Kristoff sat on a slab of rock beside the pool, holding Thomas in his arms. "You can't even walk yet Tom," he said apologetically. "Another year, and maybe you'll be able to join them." The mountain man smiled at his nephew. "Besides, you're Elsa's son. The heat shouldn't bother you."

But Thomas wasn't about to let Annabeth and Christoff have fun without him. Wriggling in Kristoff's grasp, the child exclaimed over and over. "Play! Play!"

Kristoff groaned. "Thomas, you're too young! And plus, if you get hurt under my care, your mother's going to freeze me in an ice cube for a week!" But Thomas would have none of it.

Kristoff's hands were suddenly cold. Freezing cold. Dropping his nephew with a gasp, he rubbed his hands together instinctively for warmth. "Ow!" he exclaimed. What had just happened?

Looking over, Kristoff saw Thomas speedily crawling towards the pool, where his cousins still played, oblivious.

"Thomas, no!" the mountain man yelled. "Anna, help!"

Anna turned, surprise written upon her face. "Kristoff? What's wrong?" Her husband lunged for his nephew, but it was too late. With a little squeak of fear, the little prince slipped off a rocky precipice and tumbled into the pool. Only, he never hit the surface.

There was a flash. A crackling sound. A gust of frigid wind. And suddenly Thomas was sliding across the now _frozen_ surface of the pool, his face an almost comical mask of shock.

The silence was broken by a cacophony of screams.

"Cold! Cold!"

"Stuck!"

"Ahhhh! Help, Kristoff, _help_!"

Kristoff turned and, sure enough, Anna and the children were stuck fast in solid ice up to their waists.

"Hang on, I'm coming!" he hollered. Sprinting to the pool, Kristoff swiftly scooped up Thomas. The boy offered no resistance as the mountain man then ran back to the carriage, practically throwing the little prince in the back seat.

"Where is it, where _is it?!_"

Frantically pawing through the bundle of emergency supplies, Kristoff finally came across what he was looking for. "AHA!" he triumphantly yelled, a flint and steel his hand. With his other, Kristoff grabbed a torch from the supplies, peeling back out towards the pool at a full sprint.

The situation was beginning to turn dire. Even in the summer heat, Anna was shivering profusely, her lips an unhealthy blue tinge. Kristoff was bitterly reminded of when Elsa had frozen the woman's heart, on a fateful day over four years ago. With renewed ferocity, he smashed the flint and steel together above the unlit torch.

"C'mon, _c'mon!_ Light!"

Finally, the sparks caught. Kristoff quickly held the torch as close to his wife's legs as he dared, the open flames vaporizing the ice on contact. After melting a sufficient amount of the ice as to allow Anna to free herself, the mountain man turned to his children. Annabeth was unsuccessfully trying to pull her legs out of the pond with her arms, while Christopher simply stood there and shivered, his breath coming forth in ragged gasps.

"Hold on Annabeth, I've got to free your brother first!" Without waiting for a reply, Kristoff quickly went to work on his son's legs. "That's it, Daddy's got you!"

"C-c-cold" Christopher moaned. Kristoff pulled his son out of the frozen pool, setting him down on the shore. "Stay here with Mama and get warm. Daddy's gotta help your sister".

With the help of the torch, it wasn't long before the final victim was freed from the pool's icy grasp. As the family lay on the slabs of stone surrounding the pool, rubbing feeling back into their limbs, they were suddenly very grateful for the blazing sun. After a breathless pause, Anna asked the inevitable question.

"What happened?"

Kristoff rubbed the back of his head, an expression of confusion and worry upon his face. "I was just trying to save Tom from falling in, and then… this." He gestured to the expanse of frozen water before them. When he received no response, Kristoff looked over at his wife, only to see an expression of excitement on her face, a gleam in her eyes.

"Kristoff, don't you see? This can only mean one thing!" Anna suddenly grabbed her husband's arm. "Where's Tom?"

Opening the door to the carriage, the couple felt both physical and emotional cold wash over them. For on the red leather seat sat the little prince, confusion and wonder evident on his features as tendrils of frost spread outwards from his body, covering the seat in delicate sparkling swirls.

"Oh," said the mountain man, at that point very much in shock.

Kristoff and Anna looked to each other. "Elsa," they said in unison.


	4. Cold Awakenings

_**Disclaimer: Disney is the owner of Frozen and its characters. The rest of this tale belongs to me.**_

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**Chapter 4: Cold Awakenings**

"Your Majesty, I beg you to reconsider!"

After two whole hours of negotiation, the flustered ambassador from Weselton had yet to even make a chink in the Queen's cold determination.

"Your cries fall upon deaf ears, ambassador."

Elsa levelled her gaze at the smarmy man, icy eyes piercing in their intensity. "I have made it abundantly clear that the will be no negotiation of trade re-establishment until a new Duke is appointed!" The Queen leaned forward ever so slightly. "The current Duke tried to have me assassinated. I will not let go of that fact lightly." An arctic wind blew forth at that statement.

The ambassador was quite on edge now. "What of the King? Why is he not present? I should like to hear his opinions on the matter!" His voice cracked on the last word.

"The King was present but an hour ago! Given that you did not make a single step of progress with him, I highly doubt his current presence would change matters." Elsa restrained herself from rolling her eyes. The man was truly getting desperate. "Do you have any further arguments or proposals?"

The ambassador licked his lips nervously. "Your Majesty…"

"Are there any further proposals, ambassador." It was a statement, not a question.

The man looked downwards in shame. "N-no, Majesty."

Elsa stood. "Then my answer is no. Meeting adjourned!" The Queen slammed the trade documents on the table with finality.

* * *

Kristoff urged Sven to a sprint, the carriage cannoning down the mountain path at a precarious pace. Inside, the family looked in silence upon the crown prince. Finally, Annabeth broke the tension.

"Tom has… powers? Like Auntie Elsa?"

Thomas perked up at the name. "Mama!" he exclaimed. Anna started.

"That's right! Tom is Elsa's son! She must have passed her powers on to him!"

Thomas clapped his hands together, bouncing gleefully when a flurry of snowflakes burst through the air. "Snow!" giggled the little prince.

Christopher was still sullen from the icy incident that ruined his day. "Why Tom have powers _now_?" he grumbled.

Anna held her son, contemplating the thought. "Well, we don't know when Elsa started using her powers either! So, maybe the ability only shows up at a certain age?"

Christopher still wasn't satisfied. "Mama, what are we gonna _do_?" Anna looked into her son's eyes, straightening her back with determination.

"I'm going to talk to my sister."

* * *

The Queen stalked through the halls of the castle, casting a literal chill upon her surroundings. Frost formed at her feet; flowers wilted in their vases at the sudden cold. _Why won't that damned Duke stop pestering me?_ she thought savagely. _He should have known the consequences of an attempted assassination! And yet he still thinks I'll repeal my ban._ Walking into the study, Elsa slammed the door shut. Sweeping across the room, the Snow Queen threw herself upon her desk. She sighed, the neat stacks of documents, letters, and proposals blurring in and out of focus.

Elsa knew the real reasons behind her frustration all too well. Every ambassador from Weselton, every peace treaty from the Southern Isles, even every confirmation of Prince Hans' continuing prison sentence was a cold, painful reminder of her mistakes. "Christmas in July", the people had dubbed it. If only they knew how easily it could return…

Elsa shook her head. _No_. She was in control now. She had her sister, and now she had her husband and son. Love will thaw. The past was in the past.

Opening her eyes, the Queen picked up her fountain pen and began working through the mountain of parchment before her.

* * *

"Excuse me! Coming through!" Townspeople turned their heads in confusion toward the sound of the voice, only to find a panting reindeer pulling a small carriage thundering through the Arendellian streets. Kristoff patted Sven's heaving flank. "Just a bit more, buddy! To the castle!"

The guards, spotting the carriage, hastily opened the gates, holding on to their shakos with expressions of shock as the reindeer careened through them, missing impact by a hair's breadth. Kristoff pulled hard on the reins, slowing the sweating creature to a stop in the courtyard. Anna and the children quickly disembarked, Thomas cradled in his aunt's arms.

Within moments, Kai and Gerda had rushed from the castle gates to receive the entourage. "Your Highnesses, you look awfully rushed! What seems to be the matter?" asked Gerda, a tinge of worry in her tone. After all, the last time Kristoff and Sven were in such a hurry, Anna was dying from a frozen heart.

Thankfully, this time it was Anna who spoke first. "We need to speak to Elsa immediately!"

Kai folded his arms in front of him. "Her Majesty is very busy at the moment! What is the situation?"

"It's Thomas. He seems to have… ice powers!" explained Kristoff. Kai's forehead wrinkled in shock.

"Right this way then! Hurry now!" And with that, the servant was off through the halls, Anna hot on his heels, Thomas in her arms.

Kai slowed to a halt in front of the closed study door, taking a deep breath to even his racing heart. "I'm not as spry as I once was," the servant grumbled. He turned the ornate brass handle.

* * *

_Dear Snow Queen,_

_ The Kingdom of Bray sends its kindest regards. We are a small, peaceable nation, and we offer you our hand in alliance and trade. We believe that such an agreement would be mutually beneficial, and as such, we will be sending an emissary to Arendelle in hopes of reaching a diplomatic accord with you. The ship should arrive within a fortnight._

_ His Highness,_

_ King Victar of Bray_

Elsa supported her forehead in her palm. Such matters as this should rightfully have been addressed to Henrik, the King. The fact that the letter was sent to pointedly to her, the _Snow Queen_, spoke a very clear message. Even after half a decade of peace, with Elsa constantly expressing her aversion to involving her powers in conflict of any sort, nations still feared her. That fear could turn to drastic action; another assassination attempt, or worse. The Queen sighed for the umpteenth time. As a child, Grand Pabbie had warned that fear would be her enemy. Elsa never thought he had meant it this literally.

The sound of the study door opening snapped her back to reality. The Queen whirled in the direction of the noise.

"Your Majesty," began Kai, his face carefully devoid of emotion. However, the servant's flushed cheeks and quickened breath did not go unnoticed by the Queen.

"Kai, is something the matter?"

"Your sister wishes to have a word with you." There was an urgency to his voice that did not match the statement.

"It's about Thomas."

Elsa's retort died on her lips at the sound of the name. Taking care not to freeze anything, she took a deep, calming breath. "Very well. Let her in, and fetch the King!"

The servant bowed respectfully before taking his leave, nearly colliding with Anna on her way in. Elsa practically leapt toward her sister, taking her son and meticulously checking every inch of him for injuries. When she discovered Thomas unblemished, the Queen let out a silent breath of relief. The little prince looked up onto Elsa's eyes. "Mama!" he giggled.

Turning to her sister, Elsa asked in a suspicious tone, "Anna, what did you do?"

Anna shifted nervously from foot to foot. "Well, it started like this. It was really hot in the morning, right? So the kids were all moaning about the heat, and so I decided, hey, let's go up the mountain to the Wading Pool to cool off!"

Elsa was already flabbergasted. "You _what?! _ Anna, Thomas is way too young to be playing there!"

"Sshhh! I know, I'm getting to that! So anyway, we all took Sven's carriage up the mountain. When we finally got to the place, the kids and I jumped in the pool immediately." Anna closed her eyes. "Aaaah, that was refreshing."

"Anna, you're way too _old_ to be playing there." This time, the Queen's voice carried a hint of amusement.

The younger sister paused her retelling to stick her tongue at Elsa.

"So, Kristoff was looking after Tom, sitting on the bank. But apparently, Tom really wanted to play with Annabeth and Christopher. Somehow, he got away from Kristoff and he fell in the pool." Anna paused for dramatic effect. Elsa made a mental note to reprimand Kristoff about his slip later on.

"And the pool _froze solid_. We were all stuck in ice up to our waists! Kristoff had to get a torch in order to free us! And Tom… well, when we got back to the carriage, the whole area where he was sitting was covered in frost!" By this point, Anna's eyes were bugging out so much that Elsa feared their departure from her head. "Elsa… I think Thomas has powers!"

At that moment, the King burst into the study. "Where is he? Where is my son!" Elsa quickly moved over to Henrik, handing Thomas to her husband.

"Papa!" Thomas exclaimed happily.

Instead of calming down as Elsa expected, however, Henrik inhaled in shock.

"He's ice cold!" he exclaimed.

It was Elsa's turn for her eyes to bug out. "_What?!_" The Queen quickly felt her son's hands, and then his forehead. Sure enough, they matched her skin in temperature. Elsa held her hands out in front of her, looking at them in horror. "Did… did I do this?" Snow began falling in the study as the temperature suddenly plummeted in response to the Snow Queen's sudden angst.

Anna rushed forward. "No, Elsa! Don't you see? Thomas is like you! I don't know why they didn't show earlier, but he has ice powers like yours!" The younger sister could see that Elsa was still unconvinced. She turned to the little prince in Henrik's arms. "Tom, make some snow."

Thomas waved his hand in front of his face, a light scattering of snowflakes falling from his hand onto his mother's face. "Mama! Snow!" he giggled gleefully. Both parents gasped in shock. For a moment, there was nothing but deafening silence. Snowflakes hung suspended in the air, slowly dissipating into nothingness.

"See?" said Anna in triumph.

Ironically, it was Henrik who recovered first. "Well, he always did take after you, love," he whispered, attempting a wry smile.

Still a bit dazed, Elsa held her hand in front of her son, palm up, balancing a glowing nimbus of gently drifting snow. Thomas stared at it for a while, the threw up his arms, giggling in delight as his mother's snow was drowned out by his own. Elsa laughed, and Anna thought she had never heard a sound so truly joyous.

The Queen turned to her sister, eyes bright with a light long unkindled. "Anna, tell Kristoff we're going to pay his family a visit."

* * *

It was thus that the royal family in its entirety found themselves travelling swiftly up the mountain path under the awakening night sky. Due to the fact that there was no carriage large enough to carry them all, the royals rode on horseback, or, in Kristoff's case, reindeer-back. Even Olaf was there, at his regular position on Sven's rump, his flurry chugging away above him.

Indeed, the little snowman had been all _but_ surprised when he learned of Thomas' developing powers. "Finally!" had been his energetic response to the news. When Elsa and Anna had simply stared at him in shock, Olaf had grown quite self-conscious. "Guys? What's the matter? Did I misplace my nose again? Elsa, you'd tell me if I did, right?"

The Queen had then recovered enough to ask the snowman the burning question. "Olaf… how… how did you know?"

"Pffft! C'mon Elsa, he's your _son_! What did you expect, _fire_ powers?" Admittedly, the little snowman's logic had been sound.

Now, as they neared the geysers that marked the boundaries of the Valley of the Living Rock, the entourage reached a point where their horses refused to travel further. They reared and kicked, screaming as if faced with an invisible barrier. The royal family was forced to dismount.

"Something about the place spooks the horses," explained Kristoff apologetically from his position on Sven's back. "The rest of you will have to go on foot from here." Olaf gave a sheepish little wave.

"What about Sven? How come he isn't affected?" Henrik inquired.

Kristoff gave a shrug. "He's a reindeer, and reindeers aren't horses," the mountain man said simply.

With a flourish, Elsa summoned a thin pillar of ice from the ground before them, securing their steeds to it by their reins. "This will keep them from running off," she said. Anna was positively captivated by the display. Elsa snapped her sister out of her trance with a rather large snowball. "My powers may be dangerous, but I never said they weren't useful," the Queen stated with a sniff. The younger sister blew snow from her hair.

"Yeah, and don't forget totally unfair!" was the retort.

"Guys? Keep up!" Kristoff's voice drifted back to them through the mists.

When the group finally reached the centre of the Valley, Kristoff dismounted from Sven and turned to face his family. "Well, kids, the last time I took you guys up here, Annabeth was a year old, and you, Christopher, you were still a little baby! So you guys probably don't remember." He turned to face the seemingly empty Valley. "Kids, meet my family!" The mountain man spread his arms wide in a grand gesture of presentation.

Christopher was not impressed. "Daddy! No trolls, just rocks!" the boy pouted.

Anna ruffled her son's hair, laughing. "That's what I thought the first time too! Turns out, the rocks _are_ the trolls!"

As if on cue, a particularly large rock by Kristoff's foot suddenly sprung to life. "Kristoff's home!" it exclaimed, and then proceeded to tackle the man to the ground.

"Aw, Ma!" There was a tinge of red to the mountain man's cheeks.

Henrik gave a slightly mocking chuckle. "So _that's_ your mother, Bjorgman?"

Kristoff's reply was drowned out by deafening noise similar to a landslide. With a chorus of "Kristoff's home!" and "He brought the kids!", all the trolls of the Valley unrolled from their rocky states and leapt upon the family. Elsa and Henrik looked on in amusement as Annabeth and Christopher were quickly encircled by excited trolls, while in the mean time their parents were literally buried under a pile of Kristoff's (very heavy) relatives.

Things continued thus for the better part of ten minutes. Trolls bowed respectfully to the King and Queen, politely inquiring about the physical traits and health of the new Crown Prince; while on the other side of the Valley, the same trolls leapt upon Anna and Kristoff repeatedly, while buoying Annabeth and Christopher on a sea of supporting hands.

But suddenly, from the back of the crowd came an ancient voice. "Let me through!"

Abruptly, the ruckus died down. The mass of trolls stepped aside in unison to form a path for one particularly worn and wizened specimen. The old troll slowly uncurled, producing a gnarled staff from the folds of his mossy cloak. "There is an unnatural abundance of elemental magic here tonight," the troll began in a gravelly voice, looking straight at Elsa. "An abundance that even the Queen's presence cannot explain entirely."

Elsa strode forward to meet the old troll, Thomas in her arms. "The reason for my visit tonight may offer an explanation. Though, admittedly, a family reunion has been long overdue." The Queen turned to smile at Kristoff, who returned it with a sheepish grin from his position under a mound of troll-children.

In the background, Annabeth grew a bit uneasy. "Mama? Who's that?"

Anna patted her daughter's hair. "That's Grand Pabbie, dear. He's a very wise old troll, and he's gonna help Tom."

Elsa showed Thomas to Pabbie, Henrik at her side. "This is our son, Thomas. Since birth, he's been perfectly normal, and a beacon of good health, with no sign of any elemental magic. But just today, he froze an entire mountain pond! He's even learned to make flurries of snow just by waving his hands."

"And his skin's grown ice cold!" Henrik added.

Grand Pabbie placed the index and middle fingers of his left hand upon the child's temple, closing his eyes as if in silent contemplation. When the old troll opened them again, he turned to the monarchs with a reassuring smile. "Your Majesties, you needn't worry about little Thomas' health." Pabbie focussed his gaze at Elsa. "Although this may be unknown to you, Elsa, your own abilities did not begin to manifest until you were a full year old, according to your parents. The same is now happening with your son. The ice is awakening within him. From now on, his powers will only grow stronger."

The old troll's tone grew grave. "But I foresee great conflict in this child's future." Turning to the sky, Pabbie waved his arms, manipulating the auroras into an image. The image of a young man, dressed in glittering white. Shadows of others crept at the lone figure, their malicious intent obvious in the weapons of murder clutched in their hands. In Elsa's arms, the real Thomas let out a weak cry of fear.

"Many will fear him for his abilities. They may try to hurt him, to remove him from the throne." In the auroras, the white figure settled into a fighting stance, waving his arms at the shadowy foes. Spikes of ice shot forth, impaling the would-be assassins.

"But Thomas is unlike you, Elsa. Fear will not be his greatest enemy. His greatest enemy will be _hatred_."

The old troll put his arms back by his sides, the glowing images above him dissipating into the night. Pabbie moved close to the Queen, taking a firm hold of her hand, his eyes deep and soulful. "Teach him control, yes, teach him courage. But above all else, Elsa, teach the boy forgiveness. Teach him compassion. Teach him love."


	5. Dangerous Power

_**Disclaimer: I am not the one who owns Frozen. In fact, no single person owns Frozen anyway.**_

* * *

**Chapter 5: Dangerous Power**

The next three years of Thomas' life passed by with blissful ease. The little prince progressed rapidly in speech and comprehension, quickly nearing the level of his older cousins in such fields. By his second birthday, Thomas was already able to walk surely and steadily, and he learned soon after to run, to the utter delight of Annabeth, Christopher, and Olaf. It was then that the quartet became truly inseparable. From then on, they were often found roaming the castle together, their childhood joy infectious to onlookers, though it was usually swiftly negated by the shenanigans that erupted in their wake. The cooks quickly came to fear the children's pillaging hands, and guarding dessert once again became a wearisome and difficult task, as it hadn't been in the decades since Anna was a child.

Thomas' powers progressed just as quickly as his other traits. By age two, they had intensified from light, harmless flurries to sudden frosts and flash freezing, given the child's mood. As the little prince's powers became more substantial, Elsa took to mentoring her son on the subject, in an effort to teach the boy control over his budding abilities. Thankfully, the Snow Queen found no trouble in thawing her son's handiwork, and so major property damage was avoided, for the most part.

From as early as he could comprehend it, Thomas was made aware of the danger his powers presented. Elsa repeatedly told her son the stories of her own childhood, how she hurt Anna, and how she struggled in vain for control all those years afterwards. The little prince had yet to be told of the story of Anna's frozen heart, however, as the Queen deemed it too dark a tale to impart upon the young boy as of yet. Nonetheless, Elsa took every opportunity to stress the importance of love. "Love will thaw" quickly became her mantra to Thomas.

Nonetheless, Thomas lead a very carefree existence his first three years of life. He lived in the happy ignorance of childhood, his mother's tales of seeming strife nothing more than spoken words, with little value aside from the exciting stories they held.

Of course, it was then that the first inklings of true strife began to seep in.

* * *

It was deep winter. Thomas had just celebrated his fourth birthday a mere two months ago. Late afternoon, and the sun was beginning to redden in pallor, reflecting off the freshly fallen snow with a soft golden glow. In the courtyard, four figures frolicked in the winter wonderland.

"Heads up!" Olaf yelled, launching a snowball with surprising strength from his right twig-arm. His intended target feinted to the left, ducking behind one of the frozen fountains for cover. Annabeth giggled as snowballs continued to land around her, Olaf evidently trying to find the correct arc trajectory to hit the girl from behind the fountain. Suddenly, with a cry, Christopher made a leap at the offending snowman from the side, landing a snowball straight in Olaf's mouth. The snowman in question desperately tried to cough the snow back up, eventually settling with taking off his head and physically shaking the snow out of his mouth. Christopher cheered in triumph.

"Anna, Anna! Did you see? I got Olaf in the _mouth_!" The boy jumped up and down in glee.

Annabeth walked tentatively from her sheltered position, only to have a snowball slam into the side of her head not a moment after. She turned and, sure enough, there stood Thomas, another snowball already in hand.

"Did you forget about me?" the little prince asked with a smirk. His answer came as a hail of snowballs, as the two siblings retaliated against their young cousin. Thomas quickly waved his hand to summon a large snowdrift to hide behind.

"Hey, not fair!" whined Christopher. "Olaf, come help us get Tom!" The little snowman plopped his head back on his shoulders, still as buoyant as ever.

"OK!" he agreed cheerfully.

The trio split up, predators stalking their elusive prey. Annabeth came from the left, Christopher from the right, and Olaf scaled Thomas' snowdrift for a three-pronged surprise assault. Only, they met nothing but more snow upon the other side. Before anyone had time to discover his ploy, Thomas sprung from his hiding place within the snowdrift itself, nailing both his cousins with snowballs in quick succession, then literally putting Olaf to pieces as he flattened the snowdrift with a gesture.

"Guys, a little help?" the snowman's head groaned as it rolled across the courtyard.

But the excited children payed the snowman no heed, already in hot persuit of Thomas, who was making a beeline for the stairs.

"Ugh, I'm all over the place today!" Olaf's head grumbled, watching helplessly as his abdomen rolled away from him.

* * *

From the balcony high above, Elsa watched the children, smiling at their antics. This was the childhood her son deserved, as opposed to being locked in his room for over decade in a vain attempt to conceal, as she had been. At that, the Queen felt a pang of guilt.

_It wasn't their fault_, she reminded herself, thinking of her parents, and of their many failed attempts at control. _They never dared believe that this was possible, that I could use my powers without hurting anyone_. Tears welled up, obscuring Elsa's vision. She angrily wiped them away with the back of her hand. No. She had been done crying long ago. The past was in the past.

* * *

Annabeth and Christopher, with their longer legs, had almost caught up to Thomas, the snowballs in their hands already locked on target. In his haste to escape, the little prince slipped on a patch of ice and fell upon the snow. He was quickly pelted by his cousins.

"This is what you get for using your powers, you cheater!" Annabeth yelled as she and her brother continued to rain snowballs upon Thomas. In the heat of the moment, the siblings failed to notice the little prince's joyful giggles turn to fearful whimpers. They failed to see the snow turn to ice beneath his feet, failed to hear his whispered cries for relent.

They did notice the sudden wall of razor-sharp spikes that materialized soon after, however.

Annabeth and Christopher fell backwards, panting heavily in shock. From behind his protective arc of icy spears, Thomas stood up, tears falling freely down his cheeks.

"I told you to stop. Why didn't you _stop?!_"

* * *

Elsa watched the progressions with mounting tension. There was her son, running, his pursuers quickly gaining on him. The Queen let out a little gasp when Thomas slipped and fell, his cousins pelting him with glee. When Thomas made no move of retaliation, she was already stepping off the balcony, a staircase of ice coalescing beneath her feet. It was there that the Queen looked upon her son's act of panic, at Annabeth and Christopher being thrown off their feet by the blast, at Thomas' tearful cries.

"I told you to stop. Why didn't you _stop?!_"

Elsa was suddenly whipped back to that fateful night of her coronation ball, to her confrontation with Anna, and its result.

_Why do you shut me out? Why do you shut the _world_ out? What are you so _afraid of?!

_I SAID ENOUGH!_

Casting decorum completely aside, Elsa threw her hands out in front of her, the staircase morphing into a crude slide in her haste to reach her son. Finally ran the ground, the Queen ran towards the scene as quickly as her heels would allow, the snow hardening beneath her feet in her panic.

"_Thomas!_" she yelled.

* * *

It was Annabeth who recovered first. "Tom, I… we… we didn't hear you!" she tried to explain, a note of fear in her voice.

Thomas had by then calmed a bit, the wetness no longer slipping from his eyes. "You should have stopped anyway!" the little prince sniffled, voice cracking. "It was hurting!"

"I'm… I'm sorry! I didn't see…" Annabeth continued to plead. Christopher, on the other hand, had begun to back away from Thomas' icy spikes, horror evident on his features.

At that moment of tension, a clear, commanding voice broke the heavy atmosphere.

"_Thomas!"_

The children all turned their heads to the sound, to see Elsa bolting towards the scene, her expression grim, though it could not conceal the lines of worry that still showed through.

"Ma… mama?" Thomas replied, his voice hardly above a whisper. Upon seeing their aunt, Annabeth and Christopher quickly stood up, brushing the snow off their clothes and standing guiltily beside each other.

"Thomas, what is the meaning of this?" Elsa gestured fiercely at the icy spikes, gleaming gold in the setting sun.

The little prince sniffed. "I… They kept hitting me with snowballs, and it hurt! I told them to stop, but they didn't listen, so I had to _make_ them stop!"

At this, Thomas began to cry again. Elsa moved to her son and pulled him into an embrace, looking over Thomas' shoulder at Annabeth and Christopher.

"Go to your mother, children," she said to the siblings, who still stood mutely by each other. Annabeth and Christopher turned as one and made for the stairs.

As the siblings entered the castle, Annabeth stuck her head back out the doorway, a sad look in her eyes. "I really am sorry, Tom. Please forgive us." The door swung shut.

Thomas stayed in Elsa's arms for a while, healing in her motherly love. With a slight motion, the Snow Queen thawed the looming spikes, the ice sublimating into the afternoon air. She put her son at arm's distance, looking into his slate grey eyes. "Thomas, I need you to tell me, what were you _feeling_ when you created the spikes?"

Thomas sniffled again, turning away from his mother's intense gaze.

"I felt… scared at first, when they started hitting me. But, when Anna and Chris didn't stop, even when I told them to…" The little prince looked back into Elsa's eyes. "I got… _angry_ at them. I wanted to _make_ them stop."

Elsa took both of Thomas' hands in her own, kneading them almost unconsciously. "Thomas, with great power comes great responsibility. No matter what you are feeling, you must _never_ use your powers to harm another person." Elsa's tone was grave, but not scolding, letting Thomas understand his mistake by himself. "What you did just now was wrong, Thomas. You could have seriously injured Anna or Chris. You could have _killed them_."

The tears began to flow once more from Thomas' eyes. "I… I never wanted to hurt them! It just happened!" Elsa took out her handkerchief and wiped the saltiness from the little prince's eyes, pulling him into an embrace once more.

"I know, my little love. Believe me, I know."

When mother and son finally pulled away from each other, Thomas was no longer crying. Elsa gave Thomas a reassuring smile.

"Now, that doesn't mean you _can't _use your powers." Elsa continued. "Use them for defense, never to attack." Raising her arm, the Snow Queen raised a large convex shield of ice from the ground. "Find a solution that will protect you, but not hurt the opponent." The little prince stared wide-eyed at the display, then proceeded to attempt the creation of his own shield. Elsa smiled as her son's brow furrowed in concentration, a light scattering of snow beginning to fall around him. In the end, however, Thomas only managed to raise a rough slab of ice from the ground.

Elsa ruffled Thomas' hair. "That's something we can work on. Precision." Turning serious again, the Queen brushed the snow off of the little prince's clothes. "When we go for dinner, I want you to apologise to Annabeth and Christopher. Also, I'm halving your chocolate supply for this week."

Thomas frowned. "A whole_ week?_" he whined. In his heart, however, the little prince knew it could have ended a lot worse.

* * *

_**May I remind you, reader, to review?**_


	6. Sir Gingivere the Lionhearted

_**Disclaimer: Disney keeps its ownership of Frozen and its characters. I keep my creativity.**_

* * *

**Chapter 6: Sir Gingivere the Lionhearted**

They say time heals all wounds, and that was certainly true in regard to the integrity of the infamous quartet. Although fear drove them apart at first, Thomas' genuine apologies and want for forgiveness eventually restitched the rip in the fabric of his friendship with Annabeth and Christopher. Olaf helped as he could, dealing out as many warm hugs as possible to dull the barbs stuck in the children's relationship by Thomas' act of panic. It wasn't long before the quartet was whole and active again, roaming the halls together once more.

At age five, Thomas began his studies. It was quickly evident that geometry and arithmetic were his forte, though the little prince was keen on all of his subjects. His first geometry teacher had resigned from his position, though, due to Thomas' habit of using his powers to physically create models of what he was being taught. The little prince also found rhetoric classes particularly enjoyable, as they taught him how to win almost any argument against his older cousins, a skill which he found most useful.

Thomas also became an avid chess player, in no small part because of his father's own mastery over the game. Many late nights were spent by the light of the fireplace, the warm, homely glow flickering off the pieces on the board. Thomas' brow furrowed in concentration, hand slowly moving toward his knight, only to have it flinch back at a sudden rebuke.

"Ah, ah, ah! Can't move that knight! You see, I have it pinned to your king with my bishop. If he moves, the king will be in check!"

Thomas frowned, then picked up his other knight. "Ha! Check!"

Henrik raised an eyebrow, taking the knight with his queen. His son's frown returned deeper than before. The King laughed. "Oh, Tom, it'll be a while yet before you can best me at my own game! Your move!"

As he learned mastery over chess with his father, Thomas learned mastery over his powers with his mother. With over a year of practice, the little prince had learned to create a perfect shield of ice, thin yet strong and unyielding. To Elsa's dismay, however, Thomas quickly turned to crafting other, notably less defensive creations. The little prince's interest in such things was only intensified by his love for stories of high adventure, often involving knights wielding the most extensive array of medieval weapons imaginable.

When Thomas turned six, Elsa showed him to his new room, which had finally been completed after almost a full year's work. The doors, embroidered with frost and snowflake patterns, opened to reveal a crisp hexagonal space, with hardly a wooden surface in sight. The walls, floor, and ceiling were all constructed of marble and stone, glinting cooly in the morning sun. A bed sat in one of the far corners, a fireplace positioned at the wall opposite to it, and a grandfather clock ticked away by the door. The only wooden aspects of the room were the shelves and tables, though they, too, were heavily laminated.

Indeed, the room had been designed specifically to accommodate for its inhabitant's powers, though the architects were never never made wise of the fact. It would never be particularly warm, granted, but Thomas loved it nonetheless. Here, the little prince could use his abilities to their full capacity, without worrying about damaging wood with damp and temperature, and potentially bringing the roof down upon his head. Here, Thomas was truly free.

And it was here where his powers grew.

By age eight, Thomas was able to conjure an assortment of weapons on a whim. Crude spears, pikes, maces, and hammers he was able to bring in hand with a thought and a bit of concentration. The little prince's point of pride, however, was his sword. Though still a work in progress, it was already a sight to behold. A clear, translucent blade of the densest ice, deep iridescent blue, its crystals pointing outwards, giving it the strength to hit and parry like its equivalent of iron. Annabeth and Christopher came to love watching their younger cousin practice, Christopher especially.

"Now make a javelin, Tom!" the excited boy would often yell. "Now make a trident!"

Thankfully, Thomas had been taught how to thaw his ice immediately after the incident with the ice spikes, so such antics were usually hidden from his mother.

Elsa, however, was far from oblivious to her son's growing obsessions. Grand Pabbie's warnings echoed constantly in the back of her mind, a haunting reminder of the dark path Thomas could potentially take. Yet, the Queen had no constructive arguments to sway the little prince. What Elsa really needed was a way to distract the boy, to give him something else to do besides crafting weapons.

She took up the subject with her husband in his private study.

"Well, there's a very easy fix to that!" Henrik said, after a moment of beard-scratching. "The boy loves his adventure stories. Challenge him to make a full suit of armour! That should keep him occupied for a week." The King chuckled at the thought. "And what's more, armour is solely defensive!"

Elsa mused over the prospect, a smile slowly bringing light to her features. "That's not a bad idea, actually."

Henrik grinned. "It wouldn't do for you to have married a dotard, love!" The Queen pecked him on the cheek, rising to take her leave.

"You flatter yourself." Elsa's voice drifted back through the closing study door. Henrik chuckled again.

* * *

Thomas yawned, stretching under his bedsheets. The warm light of the morning sun filtered through his eyelids, turning the world behind them a bright sea of pink. The little prince sighed, a contented sound, snuggling back into the pillow with a smile on his lips.

The moment of bliss was shattered by an insistent bout of knocking.

"Your Highness. Your Highness!" came a muffled voice from behind the closed doors.

Thomas groaned. "C'mon, Kai! Five more minutes!" The boy broke into another jaw-cracking yawn.

"Your Highness, it's well past nine! Get up! Your tutor of physical sciences will be here in less than an hour, and on top of that you're going to miss breakfast!"

At that, Thomas started. Opening his eyes a crack, the little prince peered at the grandfather clock by the door. The glaring right angle formed by its hands persuaded him to do as the servant had said.

Leaping from his bed before drowsiness could reclaim him, Thomas opened the door to Kai, who promptly began to help the boy get dressed. Opening the door to Thomas' wardrobe, an unruly mess of clothing spilled atop the servant.

"Thomas, you really need to get more organized!" Kai exclaimed. Seeing as the little prince was too busy putting on his stockings to listen, the servant sighed. "Which colour suit for the day, Highness?"

"Whichever matches my breeches and shoes at the moment!"

Kai frowned down at the boy. "Blue it is, then, though you really should put more thought to what you wear. First impressions are very important, especially concerning royalty like yourself!"

Thomas jumped to the servant, quickly threading his arms through the sleeves of the simple waistcoat, a solid blue colour with a bit of gold trim. "Breakfast is more important at the moment!" the little prince replied cheekily, buttoning the waistcoat and stepping into his similarly decorated overcoat.

Kai tsked, bending down to straighten Thomas' clothes. "Then you should have woken sooner. Now you suffer the consequences! For your mother's son, you act a great deal like your aunt!"

A few moments later, Thomas rushed into the dining hall, ignoring his parents' silent but meaningful stares of disapproval, quickly taking his seat beside Christopher. Anna laughed at the scene.

"Sometimes I think Tom is more like me than you, Elsa!"

"That's what Kai said," Thomas mumbled around a mouthful of pancakes. Henrik frowned, but decided to let the slip in etiquette slide for the moment. For this morning, there were more pressing matters to discuss.

"Thomas, I have news for you. I've canceled your scheduled class with your physical sciences tutor for today. Now, before you get too excited,-" Thomas froze mid-cheer. "-the reason for this is because your mother has a lesson of her own for you. I heard she has some… assignments planned."

The boy's eyes quickly flitted to his mother, who continued to daintily pick at her breakfast as if she hadn't heard the statement. Thomas sunk a bit into his chair, Christopher's guilty looks not helping his anxiety. _Oh, I'm done for_, he thought, wilting a little. The little prince quickly scarfed down the rest of his breakfast, then bolted to his room.

Closing the door behind him, Thomas slid into his chair, breathing heavily from more than just his recent run. What was he going to do? His mother was obviously going to punish him in some way for creating those weapons. He thought she didn't know, but she _always_ knew! Who had he been kidding?

The sound of the door opening crashed his train of thought.

Thomas turned slowly, trying desperately for nonchalance. "Hello, Mother."

Elsa closed the door behind her, her face calm and impassive. "Hello, Thomas. Shall we begin? Let's start with your frost exercises."

Thomas was shocked speechless. "You… this is just a regular lesson?"

The Queen feigned a look of surprise. "Yes, of course. What else would it be?" Thomas let out a quiet breath of relief, slowly standing from his chair.

"No! Nothing! Nothing at all! Ahem!" Clearing his throat, the boy set his hands in front of him, legs shoulder width apart. Thomas closed his eyes, concentrating on the well of wintry magic within. Frost was the surface layer, the shallowest and least of his abilities, and took but a simple thought to summon. The temperature in the room took a dip as icy patterns began crackling to life beneath Thomas' feet.

Elsa watched, nodding with approval. "Alright, now for an exercise in precision: draw the Royal Seal." Thomas formed an image of the familiar symbol in his mind, the frost crawling along the marble floor, slowly coalescing into the three-petaled crocus. The little prince looked upon his creation, chest puffing out ever so slightly in pride.

"Very good!" Elsa praised. With a wave, the Queen erased the frosty Royal Seal from the floor. "Now for your real assignment this lesson. I know you've grown very proficient at creating medieval weapons from ice..." Elsa paused to let the statement sink in. Thomas gulped, mentally kicking himself for letting down his guard. Before he had a chance to speak, however, Elsa continued. "...so my assignment for you will be similar to that. Your assignment this week is to craft a complete suit of armour. You may use the ones at the foot of the banister as a guide, but you will receive no help from your father, nor I." With a smile, the Snow Queen raised her hands slowly, slabs of ice rising from the floor at her whim. A few more motions, and the blocks began to take a rough humanoid shape. With a final flourish, a completed suit of armour now stood sentinel at the doorway, an exact replica of the ones on the first floor.

Thomas stood breathless, stunned by the display. "How…"

Elsa ruffled her son's hair, a smile playing at her lips. "I've had to fix the suit downstairs more times than I can count! Anna really had a knack of taking it apart one way or another." The Queen laughed at the memories. "I could probably assemble it in my sleep now!"

With another wave of her arms, Elsa thawed the statue. "Remember, one week. And this is not an excuse to skip classes!" By this point, Thomas was already itching to begin, bouncing about with barely contained excitement.

"I'll try to remember that, Mother!"

Elsa pulled her son into an embrace, then turned to leave. "I'll leave you to it, then!" With a final smile, the door closed on the Queen's silhouette.

* * *

Thomas threw himself into the new project with a gusto. In the days that followed, the little prince kept the temperature in his room bitterly cold to prevent his work from melting in the spring air. At the start, Annabeth and Christopher spectated their younger cousin as he worked, but it wasn't long before their blue cheeks and lips forced the siblings to take their leave.

Thomas started from the ground up. Asking for one of the suits of armour by the stairs to be moved to his room, the little prince promptly disassembled it. His first attempt at creating a suit spontaneously from large slabs of ice, as his mother had, had not ended well. When he had showed it to Elsa, the Snow Queen had promptly melted the crude, undetailed statue to slush ("A _suit_ of armour, Thomas! Could somebody have worn that?"). Thus, Thomas decided to make a replica of every piece of the armour in ice, then assemble the suit by hand. He started with the boots, then the shin-guards, the knee-pieces, all the way up past the breastplate to the shoulder guards and helmet. It was slow work, for the little prince forced himself to be very precise, lest the pieces not fit together in the end.

By day four, Thomas had all the pieces of armour replicated. His suit of ice was ready for assembly. Turning to the original suit of armour, the little prince started. The heap of disassembled pieces lay glinting in the afternoon sun. Thomas groaned. He would never be able to figure out how to put the suit back together in a _month_, much less three days! Resigned, the little prince called for Kai, who spent a long hour teaching the boy how to reassemble to armour. _It's not really cheating_, Thomas reasoned, as he set to work on his ice replica. _Mother never said anything about not involving Kai!_

By the next evening, Thomas had fully assembled his suit of ice armour. He gingerly placed the helmet upon the completed body, closing the perforated visor. The boy stepped back with a sigh, looking upon his creation. The armour glinted a dark translucent blue, almost eerie in the darkness of night. It had a _personality_ to it, emanating the noble spirit of chivalry and adventure that Thomas so loved. The little prince felt accomplished, elated at his success. Tears of joy and pride sprang to Thomas' eyes, and the boy laughed aloud.

"I proclaim you Sir Gingivere the Lionhearted! Lover of adventure, protector of the weak and innocent! A knight truly worthy of his title!" And with that, the boy summoned forth his sword, tapping the suit of armour on the tip of its helmet with the flat of the icy blade.

Little did he notice the spark of magic that travelled from his hand, up the blade of his sword, and into the helmet of the suit of armour at the point of contact.

* * *

Thomas was awake at the crack of dawn. After all, the day promised to be a big one, and it wouldn't pay to sleep in on such a morning. He got out of bed, opening the door to his wardrobe. After a moment of thought, the little prince decided upon his green suit, brushing his hair to tame his unruly bedhead. He glanced at the clock. The short hand pointed straight at the seven, its longer counterpart at the twelve. Thomas relaxed a bit at the fact that he had an hour of freedom before he would have to officially start his day.

The boy sat down in his chair, absentmindedly playing with a lock of his platinum-blonde hair as he contemplated his mother's reaction to his completed project. He hoped for high praise, but he supposed it was certainly possible that Mother may simply smile and nod, especially if it was a busy day for her. Thomas frowned at the thought. He really should have checked Mother's schedule the night before, to ensure sufficient time for maximum praise when he presented his finished assignment.

As for the assignment in question…

Thomas suddenly gave a start. He looked wildly about the room, but, sure enough, his suit of armour was nowhere to be seen! The little prince ran possible scenarios through his head in a panic.

_Could it have melted in the night? Certainly not! The room's still freezing, and there's no slush or water anywhere!_ He thought again. _Could someone have taken it? It's the only possibility! If I move fast, perhaps it has yet to melt!_ At that, Thomas bolted from his room.

Christopher was the primary suspect. Annabeth would never have done such a thing, and barely anyone else in the castle knew of his project at all. Thomas ran for his cousin's room at the end of the long sunlit hallway. Turning the knob on the door, he found it locked. Thomas banged his fist incessantly on the wood.

"Chris! Did you take my suit of armour?" Hearing nothing but snores from the other side, he yelled again. "Wake up, Chris! If you took my armour I swear I'll deep freeze you until next month!"

Suddenly, an unfamiliar voice sounded from behind Thomas. "I don't think that would do much good! The boy is innocent of the crime you accuse him of!" The voice was accompanied by a peculiar clanking, almost… almost akin to the sound of ice on marble!

Thomas whipped around. Before him stood a most incredulous sight: his lost suit of armour was situated a mere arm's length away, the icy plates twinkling blue in the morning light. The little prince was taken aback. How had he missed the _entire suit of armour_ on the way to Christopher's room, when its placement had been so obvious? More importantly, how had his suit of armour gotten there in the first place? And who was that voice?…

It was then that the suit of armour in question brought itself down upon one knee before the little prince. "My apologies, I've forgotten to introduce myself! Sir Gingivere the Lionhearted, at your service, Master Thomas."

* * *

_**BOOM. Olaf v2.0!**_


	7. Strange Surprises

_**Disclaimer: To say that I own any bit of Frozen would be a terrible lie.**_

* * *

**Chapter 7: Strange Surprises**

Before he had a chance to fully comprehend the situation, Thomas heard the dull squeak of an opening door from behind him.

"Uh, Tom, what's up?" A very drowsy Christopher stumbled out into the hallway in his bedclothes, hands rubbing his tired eyes. "Why'd you wake me? It's not even eight yet!"

Thomas stood frozen to the spot, the power of speech having completely left him. Sir Gingivere, on the other hand, had no such handicaps. Standing and walking to the newcomer, the suit of armour extended a hand in greeting.

"Ah, so you must be the 'Chris' my master was attempting to wake with such ferocity! Rest assured, it was all a rather large misunderstanding. Master Thomas suspected you of having stolen me, you see, and it is now quite obvious that that is not the case!" Sir Gingivere chuckled. "After all, I stand right here!"

Christopher was rubbing his eyes with a great deal more intensity now. "Am… am I dreaming? I must be dreaming!" The boy proceeded to pinch himself on the forearm. "Ow! Drat! This isn't a dream!" Following the revelation, Christopher's eyes turned wide as saucers. "Tom… what did you do?"

Thomas raised his hands in surrender. "I don't know! I never meant for this! And how did my suit of armour _come_ _alive?!_" At this, the little prince remembered the _other_ being who had been brought to life with powers akin to his. "Olaf! We need to get Olaf!" Christopher nodded in understanding, then sprinted down the hall (barefoot, and still in his bedclothes) to find the little snowman.

Sir Gingivere watched the receding form of the boy. "Quite a lively chap, isn't he?"

"That, he certainly is!" Thomas agreed. A droplet of water landed upon the little prince's brow. "Sir Gingivere! I forgot, you're made of ice! Come quick, before you melt!"

The suit of armour followed his master back down the hall, now a great deal more worried than before. "Good gracious, I am liable to melt? A mere walk in the sunlight will reduce me to naught but a puddle! Oh, dear, how fragile my existence is!"

Thomas patted Sir Gingivere reassuringly, the plates of armour re-freezing beneath the little prince's fingers. "Don't worry, my good knight! I am sure we can figure out a solution!" Opening the door to his room, Thomas all but shoved the suit of armour in. "It's cold in here, so you'll keep. Stay put and… don't melt." And with that, the little prince ran down the hall after his cousin.

* * *

Olaf loved the spring season almost as much as summer. The sweet smell of the morning dew, the lengthening days, the rays of the smiling sun, awaking life from its deep winter hibernation; it all made the little snowman's heart fill with joy. Or, rather, the spot in the snowman's snow-chest where a heart was supposed to be.

This particularly lovely morning, Olaf found himself wandering through the castle's southern courtyard, wallowing in the spring atmosphere. Though the gates were perpetually open now, the smaller of the two courtyards was always empty, mostly because it was nearly impossible to access without entering the castle first. The little snowman hummed a tune to himself, bouncing about and spreading a trail of rapidly melting snow behind him from his personal flurry. It was in this state that Christopher found his friend, happy and carefree as always.

"Hey, Olaf!" Christopher greeted, running towards the little snowman. Seeing the boy, Olaf immediately began waving frantically with his twig-arms.

"Hey, Chris!" Bounding up to Christopher, Olaf enveloped the boy in a huge hug. "Good morning! Ooh, you're still in your jammies!" A bit of heat crept up Christopher's cheeks.

"Well, I was kinda in a hurry," the boy explained sheepishly. "Thomas woke me up a while ago, and he had a _living suit of armour_ with him! How crazy is that? And I thought, 'Hey, Olaf would probably know something about stuff like that, being a live snowman and all', so I came to find you!"

Olaf scratched his twig-hair in contemplation. "Would this suit of armour you're talking about happen to be the one Tom was making from ice for the past week?" Christopher nodded vigorously. The little snowman's eyes suddenly alighted with understanding. "Ooh, oh, oh, oh, I know why! Tom must have brought it to life with his powers!"

Christopher frowned in confusion. "Tom can do that?" Olaf did his signature giggle.

"Of course he can, silly! He has the same powers as Elsa, and Elsa built me!" At this, the snowman paused to look down at his arms, opening and closing his twig-hands. "And last I checked, I'm alive!"

After a pause to think, the boy put his palm to his face. "Then I really should be talking to Auntie Elsa, shouldn't I?"

At that moment, the castle doors behind the duo snapped open, emitting Thomas into the courtyard. Seeing Christopher with Olaf, the little prince gave a wave. "Oh, good, you found Olaf! Come with me, quickly!" Thomas started back into the castle. When his older cousin made no move to follow, he shot Christopher a questioning glare. "Well, are you coming, Chris? What's the matter?"

"Yeah… about that. Shouldn't we tell your mother that you somehow brought an entire _suit of armour_ to life with your powers?"

"Elsa will know what to do!" Olaf added. "She has experience with these things! I mean, just look at me!" The snowman waved enthusiastically to his abdomen.

Thomas heaved a dramatic sigh. "I really wanted it to be a surprise though!" Alas, the little prince shook his head in compliance. "But my creation being _alive_ takes things out of my hands. You're right. We must talk to Mother."

"Talk to your mother about what?"

The boys both froze at the sound of Annabeth's voice. The girl revealed herself from the concealing shadows of the pillar she stood under, a smug grin upon her face. Christopher glared at his sister. "Well that's good of you, sneaking about like… like an eavesdropping spy!" Thomas frowned as well.

"How much did you hear of our conversation, spy?" The little prince folded his arms in front of his chest. Annabeth blew a raspberry at her younger cousin.

"I heard enough to know that you brought your suit of ice armour to life! What, was having just a suit of armour not good enough? You _had_ to bring it to life?" It was Annabeth's turn to fold her arms over her chest, her eyebrow raised in question.

"No, no, it wasn't like that!" Thomas groaned inwardly. He had a fair idea of when and how he had brought Sir Gingivere to life, and the thought of admitting that he had spoken to a then inanimate object was too humiliating to consider. "It just happened! I need to ask Mother about what to do with him!"

"Him? So it has a name?"

Thomas groaned out loud this time. Annabeth was even more intrigued now. "Show me! Show me your suit of armour!" she exclaimed, leaning forward eagerly, her strawberry-blonde hair bouncing about in its ponytail. Thomas, sensing an upper hand, smirked at the girl.

"Or what? You certainly haven't gained my love and trust through your actions thus far today. What's to stop me from refusing your request?" The little prince raised an eyebrow in challenge.

"You want to play that way? Fine. If you don't show me, I guess I'll have to tell my dear mum about how you stole her chocolates the other day. You know how protective she is about her chocolate..."

Thomas gritted his teeth in anger at the disgustingly low blow. "_You wouldn't dare_," he growled.

Annabeth grinned smugly. "I guess we'll see then, won't we?"

Christopher and Olaf looked back and forth between the quarrelling cousins, cringing as the tension built in the atmosphere. From experience, Christopher knew how quickly such arguments could escalate. Once, Thomas had frozen the entire dining table, food and all, during a dinner dispute with Annabeth. Look! One could clearly see the frost beginning to emanate from beneath Thomas' feet...

But at last Thomas relented. "Nothing is worth facing Aunt Anna's wrath, especially concerning her chocolate," the little prince concieded with a sigh. "Very well. You win." Turning, Thomas marched briskly to the doors, leaving his cousins (plus a snowman) packing in the dust after him. As they entered the castle, the little prince couldn't help but add a spiteful "This time…", sending forth a sprinkling of frost accompanied by an arctic gust to accentuate the statement. The sound of Annabeth's shivers sent a guilty thrill of victory down Thomas' spine.

* * *

Gerda had served the Arendellian royal family for three generations. Needless to say, the aged maid had seen and experienced a fair share of strangeness in her time. She'd been one of the first to witness Elsa's budding abilities as a child. She had seen Princess Anna's hair turn white as she slowly died of a frozen heart, of all things. She even conversed with a living, breathing snowman on a regular basis! Thus, the maid thought herself all but desensitized to surprise.

Her morning chores were less numerous these days than in days past. With the influx of new staff after the Queen's Open Gate policy, work in the castle was much more evenly spread than during the years of isolation. Gerda now found herself giving orders more often than actually doing work. Nonetheless, some duties were given to only the most trusted members of staff.

Like on most mornings, Gerda had the job of waking the royal children and "helping" them make their beds and organize their wardrobes (though the maid usually ended up having to do all the work). This day, she was in charge of Thomas. As the clock struck eight, Gerda stood before the little prince's bedroom door, giving a quiet little knock. This was the usual tactic. The maid would continue to knock with increasing volume and intensity until the knocks elicited a response. This time around, however, things took a turn for the bizarre.

"Hello? Who's out there? If you are looking for Master Thomas, he is currently absent."

Gerda frowned. Though the voice didn't sound like the little prince, the maid knew how mischievous the boy could be.

"Thomas, you can't fool me. I know it's you! Open up, please!"

The same unfamiliar voice sounded from behind the door. "Master Thomas truly is absent! But, since you insist, I suppose I should let you in to see for yourself."

The door opened, the cold air within washing over Gerda. The maid stormed into the room, her searching eyes scouring the six walls for Thomas. Where was that cheeky little troublemaker? The maid's eyes settled on the icy suit of armour to her left. She couldn't help but gasp a little in admiration. Such fine craftsmanship! But where was the boy?

"Do you believe me now? He isn't here!"

What was that voice? It seemed to be coming from her left… The suit of armour! Gerda laughed haughtily in triumph.

It was then that the suit of armour in question tilted its head quizzically. "Why do you regard me so shrewdly? Surely you do not believe that Master Thomas is _inside_ me!"

The maid's laughter turned to a choked gurgle in her throat. Had that suit of armour just… spoken? Moved on its own accord?

"If you are set on staying, could you please shut the door? You're letting the heat in, and I've been told I am liable to melt!"

Good God! Before she knew what was happening, Gerda found herself in the arms of the suit of armour, her body caught halfway on its descent to the marble floor.

"Are you quite alright, madam? You seem a bit faint!"

The maid (who truly was feeling quite faint at the moment) leapt from the arms of ice with a spryness that did not match her years. In the blink of an eye, Gerda was cannoning down the hall, screaming "Queen Elsa!" at the top of her lungs, leaving a very confused suit of armour in her wake.

* * *

The infamous quartet had just ascended the grand staircase onto the second floor when a piercing scream echoed through the castle.

"_Queen Elsa!_"

Thomas froze in his tracks, Olaf nearly upsetting the boy by bumping his now stationary back. Annabeth frowned.

"That sounded an awful lot like Gerda! What could she possibly need to disturb Auntie Elsa for this early in the morning?"

But the pieces had already clicked into place in Thomas' head. Before anyone else had the chance to even contemplate the question, the little prince was already setting out in a flat-out sprint for his bedroom, hints of frost trailing in his wake. The other three raced to follow.

"Tom, slow down!" Christopher shouted after his cousin. "What's going on?" But the little prince offered no reply, excepting another burst of speed.

When he reached the hallway that contained his bedroom, Thomas found his door thrown open. Skidding to a panting halt in front of it, he found Sir Gingivere standing with his arms out in front of him. Thomas folded his arms in front of his chest.

"OK, what did you do?"

"That's the problem! I haven't a clue! It seems that my voice is so grievous that the maid ran from me screaming the instant she heard it!"

"The maid?" Thomas slapped his palm to his face. "Gerda! How could I have forgotten? She didn't know I'd woken up, so she came to wake me like every other morning. Except this time, instead of me, she found you!"

By then, the other three members of the infamous quartet had finally caught up to Thomas. Annabeth gave a gasp as she beheld Sir Gingivere.

"Wow! He's magnificent! As much as I hate to admit it, you've got some craftsmanship yet, Tom!"

Taken aback by the compliment, the little prince gave an impish grin. Sir Gingivere gave a modest bow from behind Thomas. "If only that maid had been so kind." The suit of armour shook his head. "She ran from me like I was the plague!"

"Yeah, weird huh? People used to do that to me all the time, too! I even scared someone off the pier once!" Olaf bounced into view from behind Christopher. Sir Gingivere backed up a few paces, hands held as if in defense.

"What in the name of chivalry is that!"

Olaf spread his arms wide and gave a single-toothed grin. "Hi! I'm Olaf, and I like warm hugs!"

"He's a live snowman," Christopher explained simply. "Auntie Elsa, Tom's mom, gave life to him like Tom did for you!"

At that, the suit of armour walked slowly over to Olaf, scrutinizing the little snowman. Olaf looked up at Sir Gingivere, scrunching his brow in question. "How do you talk if you have no face?" The suit of armour froze on the spot. Though he indeed did not have a face to express with, the children could feel Sir Gingivere's wounded pride nonetheless.

"And how, pray tell, would a man of snow give warm hugs?" Sir Gingivere retorted. Olaf drew himself up with dignity.

"I may be a snowman, but Anna says I give the warmest hugs ever!"

"And what of that peculiar cloud above your head?"

"It's so I don't melt!"

Sir Gingivere was a great deal more interested now. "Really? Is there a possibility that I could get one?" The suit of armour looked to his creator. Thomas shifted sheepishly.

"Uh, well, weather is difficult. I have no idea how Mother keeps the flurry above Olaf's head in place. Whenever I create weather, it dissipates as soon as I lose focus! Sorry, Sir Gingivere…"

Suddenly, the temperature dropped. All heads turned to Thomas. The little prince shrugged. "Wasn't me!"

"Children! What is going on here?" The Queen strode into view, her sister in tow. Annabeth and Christopher flinched, and Thomas slowly turned to face his mother. Elsa's icy gaze scoured the group, finally settling upon Sir Gingivere. "Thomas, did you bring your suit of armour to life?"

"Y-yes, Mother?" The statement was spoken like a question.

Elsa massaged the bridge of her nose with two fingers. "And why would you do such a thing?"

"I… I don't know how it happened, or even how I did it! It just happened!" Thomas cringed, expecting a great deal of chastisement. The little prince was very surprised to hear the sound of his aunt's laughter instead.

"Oh, Elsa, looks like Tom's your son after all!"

Elsa turned her gaze to her sister. "What?"

"C'mon! Olaf was an accident, too! And you have to admit, even Marshmallow wasn't completely thought through!" Anna gave a little giggle. Elsa just stared.

Thomas cleared his throat. "Would this be a terrible time to tell that I officially knighted him Sir Gingivere the Lionhearted?"

That was the final straw. A burst of laughter escaped the Queen's lips. "You _knighted_ an inanimate suit of armour? Thomas, I thought I taught you better than that! Oh, you truly are more like your aunt than you know!" Anna slapped her sister playfully on the arm.

Everyone's attention was redirected once more as Sir Gingivere stepped forward. "My apologies for interrupting, but I do not believe we've been introduced."

Olaf jumped at the chance. "Ooh! OK! Elsa, meet Sir Gingivere." Elsa raised an eyebrow. "Sir Gingivere, meet Elsa! Oh, and I almost forgot! Elsa is the Queen of Arendelle." With astonishing speed, the knight knelt at Elsa's feet.

"Your Majesty! My sincerest of apologies. I was not aware of being in the presence of a Queen."

The Queen gave a small smile of amusement. "Well, at least he is a gentleman! Rise, Sir Gingivere. All is forgiven." The knight stood with military efficiency. Anna laughed.

"He's certainly got better manners than Marshmallow!"

"Your Majesty, if I may, would it be possible for you to establish something alike to Olaf's flurry for me? I am terribly afraid of my imminent demise through melting!" Sir Gingivere held his hands in a pleading gesture. Thomas looked up at his mother with imploring eyes. Elsa sighed.

"Well, I suppose we are stuck with you now." Closing the distance between her and the knight, the Snow Queen placed her palm on Sir Gingivere's breastplate. The knight shuddered as a glowing snowflake pattern emanated from Elsa's hand and into his chest. There was the soft sound of freezing ice. "There. Now you will keep." Elsa smiled at her son. "One mobile flurry spreading snow all over the castle is quite enough."

Anna clapped her hands happily. "Sir Gingivere, I pronounce you a member of our family!"

"Our very strange family including, but not limited to, a living snowman, a reindeer, and now a suit of armour with knightly title," Christopher added wryly. Sir Gingivere bowed his head.

"I am honoured."

* * *

_**As always, REVIEWS PLEASE! Praise is quite fulfilling, but criticism is the elixir of betterment, bitter though it may be.**_


	8. A Knight Amidst the Snow

_**Disclaimer: The fantabulous man by whom this story was written owns not the rights to Frozen.**_

_**Soundtrack: Two Steps From Hell - Eternal Sorrow**_

* * *

**Chapter 8: A Knight Amidst the Snow**

Sir Gingivere's actual integration into the royal family was not an easy one. As had Olaf before him, the living suit of armour endured many screams and swoons from the castle staff. Indeed, even the King himself had almost fallen from his chair when introduced to his newest subject. However, Henrik quickly took a liking to the knight, in no small part because of Sir Gingivere's flawless decorum and etiquette.

"How my own son, who casts etiquette out the window at every opportunity, is the creator of such a gentleman, I'll never know," Henrik said to his wife, shaking his head in wonderment.

"How a then traumatized and depressed Queen in exile created a creature of joy and love, I will never know either," Elsa replied, smiling. "Magic works in ways we will never understand."

Unlike Olaf, however, Sir Gingivere was very aware of others' reactions to his existence. The knight took to standing sentinel by his master's door, avoiding contact with people unless accompanied by Thomas. The little prince tried to reassure his friend best as he could.

"Don't worry, people will warm up to you eventually! It's like with Olaf; people just need time to get used to seeing you!"

"I don't know how that snowman endured it! Watching people run screaming simply from your presence… It really lowers one's self esteem," had been the knight's disgruntled response.

There was one particular entity that Sir Gingivere found extremely intriguing, however: Marshmallow. The fabled third snow-creature, the one that presided at the soaring peak of the North Mountain, guarding the Snow Queen's Kingdom of Isolation from desecration. Sir Gingivere often contemplated long and hard about Marshmallow's personality. Surely the creature wasn't as utterly carefree and care_less_ as Olaf; it was a guardian, after all. Perhaps the third snow-creature would be more like he; a knight, a gentleman. A possible companion in a sea of the fearful.

It took Thomas quite a while before he managed to get that particular aspiration from the knight, and the knight in question having no facial expressions to speak of made the task all the more challenging. When he finally did grill the truth from Sir Gingivere, however, mirth gushed forth from the little prince.

"You want… companionship… from _Marshmallow_?" Thomas managed to ask, gaffaws wracking his body. "Oh… you really need… to see the guy… for yourself!"

Sir Gingivere held his head up with as much dignity as the situation allowed. "Perhaps I will!" The knight had then reverted to a statue, probably thankful for his lack of reddening cheeks. However, Thomas' reaction to the knight's confession only peaked Sir Gingivere's interest in meeting the third snow-creature.

And the chance to do so would come quicker than the knight expected.

* * *

The soft haze of spring slowly sharpened into focus. Colours grew more vibrant; the blue of the fjord seemed crisper, the green of vegetation deeper, flowers opening up to the brightening sun. The days grew long, and the temperature rose. Summer had come.

Every year, on the summer solstice, the Queen would take her family up the North Mountain to her Kingdom of Isolation for a vacation of sorts. For Elsa, it was a reminder of the beauty in her abilities, as well as a chance to taste freedom once more. For the rest of the family, it was a reprieve from the summer heat. Thomas especially loved the annual trips, even though the summer heat did not affect him; the ice palace was a magnificent spectacle of the power the little prince shared with his mother.

The day finally came. Kristoff had packed a carriage with the necessary supplies, and the royal steeds were saddled and ready for the excursion. Though the sun shone with hot intensity, the family was dressed in winter furs and mittens, excepting the Snow Queen and her son, who were still dressed in casual summer attire. Anna, being Anna, was already extremely impatient for departure.

"Alright! We're all packed! Let's go already!"

Elsa looked over her assembled family. "Is everyone accounted for?"

"Yes, I do believe you are ready to depart, Your Majesty," Kai replied.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Anna attempted to mount her horse, unbalanced, and toppled off the opposite flank. The animal gave a whinny that sounded suspiciously like laughter. Kristoff's head dropped into his hands.

Thomas turned to his icy companion beside him. "Uh, I probably should have asked this earlier, but, do you know how to ride?"

Sir Gingivere tilted his head in what was probably an indignant glare. "Well, excuse me, I'm a knight! Tell me, have you ever met a knight that couldn't ride a horse? We aren't called "mounted warriors" for nothing, Master Thomas!"

The little prince held his hands up placatingly. "Well, I haven't met many knights, but I'll take your word for it. I just thought that since _I_ can't ride very well, and I am your creator, you might not be able to ride so well either..."

As a reply, the knight deftly leapt upon his horse, grabbing the reins with obvious expertise. "Are you convinced of my ability now?"

Thomas entered Sven's carriage with the rest of the children, shaking his head all the while. "Magic makes no sense sometimes…"

Anna finally managed to get upright on her saddle. Kristoff mounted Sven, Olaf already seated on the reindeer's rump. The carriage door closed, children safely within. At the front of the entourage, the Queen and King sat regally upon their steeds. The family was ready.

"Farewell, Majesties! We wish you the best of fun!" called Gerda.

And with that, the sharp rap of hooves on pavement receded into the distance.

Up the mountain the family rode, forest flying by on the wayside. The temperature grew steadily colder, the air thinning as the royals continued to climb. Past the last of the trees, the first hints of snow began to appear, glistening defiantly at the blazing summer sun. This was a place where winter never released its hold. They had entered the true realm of the Snow Queen.

Inside the carriage, the children bantered on.

"So, what's Sir Gingivere so excited about?" Christopher asked Thomas.

"Oh, come on Chris! Everyone is always excited to see Auntie Elsa's fabled ice palace for the first time!" Annabeth retorted.

Thomas gave an amused little chuckle. "No, Sir Gingivere only wants to meet Marshmallow!"

Christopher's eyes were wide with disbelief. "No way! No one _ever_ wants to meet Marshmallow! He's the only reason why there aren't crowds at the ice palace all the time. The guy's scary as anything!" The boy shivered.

"Aw, Marshmallow's not like that to everyone. Just to people who somehow manage to _knock down the chandelier_ on their way through the palace!" Annabeth gave her brother a pointed look.

"Hey, Auntie Elsa fixed it quick anyway! And plus, that was mostly Olaf's fault. How come he doesn't get any blame?"

"That's because he's cuddly and lovable," Thomas smirked at Christopher. "And you're not. But, hey, there has to be _someone_ to take the responsibility."

Christopher remained in sullen silence.

Suddenly, the carriage slowed to a halt. They had reached the ravine. It was here that, almost two decades before, Kristoff had lost his first sled to the depths while helping his future wife on her quest to restore summer. This time, however, Elsa was not up at her icy palace—this time, she was right by her sister's side. The children all got out of the carriage to watch the coming spectacle, their faces eager in anticipation. At the edge of the cliff, the Snow Queen raised her arms to the sky.

First, there was but a light dusting of snow. Streaks of icy magic shot across the ravine, twisting and spiralling through the air. Slowly, a breathtaking bridge of clear, dense ice grew across the yawning abyss, sparkling blue in the sunlight.

Kristoff whistled. "That never gets old."

Elsa gave the mountain man a sheepish but heartfelt smile.

"Well, just as soon as we're done admiring it, maybe we could actually cross the bridge?" Anna huffed impatiently. "This isn't even the main attraction yet!"

Kristoff laughed. "Alright, alright! Lead on, feistypants!"

Thus, the family continued its journey to the icy summit.

* * *

Olaf was getting considerably more excited as the journey progressed. "Ooh! Look! That's where Elsa built me! Ooh! And that's where I got thrown off the mountain by Marshmallow! And that's where I got impaled..."

"It seems that you've had some exciting adventures, Olaf," remarked Henrik, smiling.

"Yup! Ooh, and there's where Anna tried to climb a cliff for the first time!"

Indeed, they had finally reached the sheer face of rock that marked the boundary of the Kingdom of Isolation. Though it would seem an insurmountable obstacle to the inexperienced eye, there was a hidden crevasse in the rock that provided a path through it, as Olaf had observed out all those years ago. Stepping from her horse, Elsa turned to face her family.

"We'll go on foot from here. The horses and Sven won't be able to climb the staircase." The Queen smiled apologetically. "I never originally meant for visitors, you understand." Dismounting, Henrik gave his wife a reassuring pat.

"The palace would be much less grand without your beautiful staircase, love."

"That I can second!" Kristoff agreed, opening the door to the carriage behind Sven.

Elsa looked to her son, who was stepping out with the other children. "Thomas, would you like to do the honours?" Thomas frowned in confusion.

"_She means making an ice-pole thing to tie the horses to_," Anna whispered helpfully.

"Oh!" Focusing on the ground before him, the little prince's brow crinkled in concentration. A wide crystal of ice sprouted up, slowly growing in height. "There!" The little prince gave the pole shaped formation a few hard pats. "It should be strong enough."

Beside him, Sir Gingivere applauded Thomas' work. "Splendid! Though, I never doubted your ability. You created _me,_ after all!" The knight proceeded to tether his horse to the icy pole. The rest of the family followed suit, all save Kristoff.

"You can behave yourself while we're gone, can't you Sven?"

"_Of course!_" Kristoff spoke for Sven.

"Aah, that's a good boy!" Kristoff scratched the reindeer under the chin.

The King shook his head at the mountain man's self-dialogue, while Elsa gave a little laugh of amusement. Anna grew a bit crimson around the edges. Kristoff, as if suddenly aware of the situation, straightened up and cleared his throat.

"Ahem, alright! Onwards to the palace!" The mountain man walked to the crack in the rock, the rest of the family following close behind.

"Bye, Sven!" Olaf called good-naturedly as the royal steeds were blocked from sight by the encroaching stone walls.

From ahead, cold light shone at the end of the passage. Walking single file, the royals stepped out from the narrow pathway onto the other side. The peak of the North Mountain glittered sparkling white, snow covering the landscape in a thick blanket, even during the height of summer. They had entered the Kingdom of Isolation.

A collective gasp rose from the group. For before them lay a sight to behold; the pinnacle of magnificence, shining like a beacon of liberty—the Ice Palace. Its shape seemed to melt into the sky, rising like a brilliant spike into the heavens above, crystalline facets refracting the light of the sun, casting the entire structure in an ethereal glow reminiscent of the purest diamond. The staircase leading up to the palace was no less beautiful, its elegant curvature seeming to defy gravity as it gracefully soared over the canyon and into the narrow double doors of the palace entrance on the other side.

Everyone simply stood for a moment, eyes wide with admiration, basking in the utter splendor and majesty of the sight. Sir Gingivere wiped at imaginary tears.

"And to think I thought I knew beauty before this day. I shall never deem anything beautiful again, for nothing can ever compare with the sight before me now! Words fall utterly short of describing the sheer splendor and glory of your palace, Your Majesty!" The knight fell before the Queen, head bowed.

Elsa was completely taken aback by such unabashed praise. A hand went to her heart as she blinked, at a loss for words. Beside her, the King chuckled.

"My fondness of you only grows with the passing of time, good sir! Rise."

The atmosphere was shattered by a sudden sound similar to that of an avalanche. The members of the family drew together as the enormous, before unnoticed mound of snow beside the staircase came violently and abruptly to life. Massive shoulders erupted from the ground, and upon them, the fearsome head of the beast glared down at the assembled royals. Opening its mouth, a voice like the thunder of a moving glacier blasted forth.

"_**WHO GOES THERE?!**_"

Unfazed, Olaf gave an energetic wave. "Hi, Marshmallow! How are things? You know, it seems only yesterday that you were chasing me and Anna and Kristoff down the mountain! Oh, the fun we had together!" The snowman giggled. Marshmallow stared at the snowman for a moment, then gave a dismissive huff in his direction.

Elsa separated from the group, slowly walking toward the snow beast. "Marshmallow, you remember us. We've come to visit again." The Snow Queen placed a calming hand upon Marshmallow's right knee, the thin line of Hans' amputation still visible even after numerous repairs. Elsa smiled up at her creation. "How's the leg?"

"**Better… now,**" Marshmallow intoned. An expression of anger came over the golem's face. "**Bad soldiers.**"

The Queen's smile turned dark at the memory.

Further back, Thomas moved to Sir Gingivere's side. "_That_ is Marshmallow." The little prince pointed to the towering beast. "How do you like him? Is he companion material?"

The knight gave a weak shrug, seeming the slightest degree shaken. "I must admit, I never imagined him to look like... _that_. He's so enormous!"

At the sound of Sir Gingivere's voice, Marshmallow suddenly turned to face the group again, searching eyes finally settling on the knight of ice. "**Who is… ice man?**" the golem growled. "**Never seen before.**"

Many respectable men would have cowered under the snow beast's gaze, but Sir Gingivere was "the Lionhearted" in more than just title. Walking to Marshmallow, the knight initiated a deep, formal bow. "Sir Gingivere the Lionhearted, pleased to meet your acquaintance! I must say, I've heard a great deal about you, Marshmallow, Guardian of Isolation."

The golem glowered down at the knight. "**You are living ice. Elsa make you?**"

"Her Majesty's son, actually. Master Thomas, over there." Sir Gingivere gestured toward the little prince, who gave a nervous little wave.

Marshmallow looked to Elsa, who nodded. "Thomas made him and brought him to life by accident. A bit like what I did with Olaf, in fact!"

Satisfied, Marshmallow gave a solemn nod. "**Elsa likes you. I let you pass.**"

"Come on guys, what are we waiting for?" The family turned to see the Snow Queen ascending the staircase, gesturing for them to follow. But again, the royals could only watch, awestruck.

For Elsa was almost dancing up the icy steps, wisps of snow and wintry magic spiralling around her, glowing snowflake patterns flashing the staccato rhythm of her footfalls. Her tinkling laughter filled the still mountain air, a sound of boundless joy. Up here, Elsa could cast aside the weight of the crown, her Queenly duties and responsibilities, if only for a day. Up here, she could let it go once more. Elsa was free. And it was a glorious sight.

Anna was the first to recover. With a whoop, the woman ran up the stairs to meet her sister, laughing all the while. Henrik was next, and though he traversed the steps in a regal manner, there was nothing that could dim the brightness of the grin upon the King's face. The children came after, Annabeth happy and carefree, Olaf buoyant as ever, Thomas beaming as he walked in step with Sir Gingivere, and Christopher keeping a wary distance from the golem who still stood sentinel to the side. Marshmallow had his dark eyes locked on to the boy.

"**Break nothing,**" was the low, menacing growl, accompanied by the not-so-subtle clicking of the golem's icy fingers forming fists. Christopher gave a nervous nod, and ran up the stairs as if Marshmallow were physically chasing him the whole way. Kristoff brought up the rear, admiring the ice of the railing with appraising eyes. He whistled again as he ran a careful hand over the iridescent blue.

"Flawless…"

With resonating sound, the towering double doors to the palace slowly opened. The family filed inside, taking care not to slip on the icy floor. The interior was lit with a soft blue light, filtering in from the domed ceiling high above. Since its original construction, Elsa had added new features to the palace with every consecutive visit. The ground floor was now decorated with an assortment of furniture and ice statues, and even two suits of ice armour flanking the doors. Sir Gingivere found those particularly interesting.

Up the many flights of icy stairs the family walked. Through a set of translucent doors, they turned to the left and up another winding staircase. The second set of doors before them opened as if on their own accord, revealing the room beyond. The chamber behind the balcony. The very place where fear and doubt once reigned, the very place where one young woman's heart was speared her sister's icy magic. Who would have known that such a place would one day become a place of love and happiness? Elsa turned to Anna mid-stride, eyes alight with the joy of the moment. Anna returned with a wholehearted grin. There were no words said, no words that _needed_ to be said. The sisters' feelings were mutual. The storm had long abated. The past was in the past.

The balcony room had seen many renovations since that fateful confrontation with the "bad soldiers". The chandelier had been rebuilt, albeit with many more supports than before. The foreboding spikes that had once dominated every corner of the room had been removed, along with all hints of darkness from the walls and floor. Golden light filtered through from the closed balcony doors, and the ice all around seemed welcoming, even warm in the soft radiance.

The family walked slowly through the room, basking in the blissful atmosphere. Finally, they came to the balcony doors. With a clear ringing, the final set of doors opened, revealing the picturesque landscape beyond. All of Arendelle lay before their eyes, tinted luminescent gold in the noonday sun. The royals could see the castle nestled in the crook of the mountains, the sapphire fjord a protective hand cupping the land in its slender fingers. They could hear the boisterous, faraway sounds of village life, carried upon the gentle summer winds. The peace was almost palpable.

The light of the sun lit the smiling faces of the family, glistening on Olaf's snowy mantle, refracting through Sir Gingivere's icy plates, casting those around the knight in a glimmering spectrum. Here was a moment of untainted content and freedom. A moment to be remembered forever after.


	9. Darkness Past

_**[SPOILER ALERT]: If you've yet to watch Frozen, this chapter will completely spoil the plot.**_

_**Disclaimer: Disney holds ownership over Frozen.**_

* * *

**Chapter 9: Darkness Past**

With further revolutions of the seasons, Thomas began to change in more ways than one. Aside from the expected physical developments that accompanied puberty, the young prince experienced a sudden and unexpected surge in his elemental powers. What would previously only have yielded a light dusting of snow now turned the entire room in which the boy happened to be in into a winter landscape. Anxiety and frustration would cover everything in frost; anger resulted in arctic blizzards. Coupled with the probable mood swings Thomas would experience as a teenager, his power became a loose cannon, as it hadn't been since age five.

Indeed, it had been at this age that Elsa's powers had truly become uncontrollable. It had been then when she dared not to even touch anyone anymore. It had been then that her life of isolation had truly begun. Alas, the Queen understood all too well her son's torment. Thus, she redoubled her efforts in teaching Thomas control. Lessons commenced in the young prince's room with a new urgency.

* * *

"The key to control is the complete opposite of what my father had taught me," Elsa explained. "My father had always said, 'conceal, don't feel'. The problem is, you can't keep your emotions locked inside forever. They will keep multiplying, keep piling up, until the pressure will be too great for you to hold back. In order to gain control, you must _feel_. Focus on your emotions. Become familiar with them. Learn to rationalize. Never let your emotions dictate your actions."

The Queen closed her eyes, a wave of unbidden memories coming to life behind the lids. She exhaled shakily. "When emotions take free reign, _that_ is when your power becomes a danger. That is when the worst can happen. As it did for me…" At this, a single tear rolled down Elsa's cheek. Frost began to crawl across the marble flooring at the Queen's feet. Thomas rushed forward, his face etched with concern.

"Mother! What's wrong?"

Elsa took a calming breath, the icy patterns beneath her slowly dissipating. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, but steady. "Thomas, I think it is time I told you a story." The Queen guided her son to the table at the centre of his room, the polished wooden surface dancing in the flickering light of the fire beyond. Taking a seat in one of the upholstered chairs, Elsa gestured for her son to do the same.

"Do you remember the stories I told you when you were little? Of Anna and I as children, of how I hurt my sister with my powers?" Thomas nodded slowly. Elsa clasped her hands on the table, leaning forward to begin her tale. "This story happens twelve years after that fateful night.

"After my parents were lost at sea, it was only a matter of time until I had to take the throne. However, control over my powers was still as unreachable as ever, even more so due to my grief at the time. I dared not to even leave my room to attend my parents' funeral.

"As for my preparedness to be Queen, well, I knew it all in theory, but I'd never spoken to a single person outside the castle walls in over thirteen years. To say I was out of practice in human affairs would have been the understatement of the century. So, I planned my coronation with only one thing in mind: minimal contact with others. Instead of the usual month-long festivities, I cut it down to one day. I would have time to meet with foreign dignitaries, but I made sure that there wouldn't be enough for anyone to do much more than exchange greetings. The only time that I would be expected to speak with the public would be during my speeches. Those I practiced until I muttered them in my sleep."

Elsa chuckled mirthlessly. "There was one loose end, however. Anna. Your aunt was never quite similar to me, but back then we'd practically been polar opposites. While I lived in isolation, she dreamt of the freedom of the outside world. Of _human company_. She'd even taken to speaking to the paintings in the halls for lack of better companionship.

"There was one thing that Anna longed for far more than anything else, though. For me to open my door to her. You see, when I had hit Anna's head with my magic, Grand Pabbie had been forced to remove all her memories of my powers in order to bring her back to health. My sister knew nothing of the true reason to my isolation, of why I quite literally shut her out of my life. My door came to represent the rift in our friendship. A friendship Anna would have given anything to restore."

The firelight reflected off the glistening tears that began to well up in the Queen's eyes. "But letting my sister in had been unthinkable. I had to protect her from my powers. From _me_." Elsa sighed, a long, depressing sound.

"Time ticked on. Coronation day came. To my endless frustration, I was unable to hold the orb and sceptre without my anxiety covering the objects in frost within seconds. I tried to convince the church staff to let me wear gloves during the ceremony. Bishop Gregory had been a kindly man, one of the few who knew of my unique abilities at the time, but he was quite set on tradition. No amount of pleading could persuade him to let me keep my gloves on during the coronation.

"The actual ceremony came all too soon. It was all a blur from my position on the pedestal, the sound of the choir singing in one ear, the whispers of the crowd registering in the other. When the bishop unveiled the orb and sceptre, I was in a daze. Gregory had to remind me to remove my gloves. The next few seconds felt like hours. At an achingly slow pace, the bishop spoke the symbolic words that would dub me Queen of Arendelle. All I could focus on was the layer of frost forming beneath my hands. Before Gregory had even fully finished, I'd all but thrown the orb and sceptre back onto their cushion. Oh, the relief I felt! I thought the worst had passed.

"At the start of the evening ball, Kai formally introduced me and my sister to the partygoers. It turned out, Anna was quite awkward when put on the spot like that. I felt a little pity for my little sister, so I gave her a smile and said hello. Anna had seemed shocked that I had been the one to actually start a conversation! Nonetheless, up at the front of the ballroom, we exchanged some of our first real words to each other in… forever. Then, the Duke of Weselton came asking for a dance, and to save face and dignity, I handed Anna off to the man in my stead."

This time, the chuckle was quite genuine. "The man had some of the strangest dancing styles I have ever witnessed. Like a chicken with the face of a monkey!"

Thomas was a little confused now. "But Mother, didn't you say the Duke of Weselton was a bad man?"

His mother's face grew dark once more. "First impressions aren't always accurate, Thomas. On more counts than one.

"So Anna returned from her dance. She obviously seemed beyond happy to finally have made progress on me, after all those years trying in vain. Despite everything, we actually got the conversation going. But when Anna blurted out how she wanted me to keep the gates open, to be like this every day, I caught myself. I could not give her false hope. So I did the only thing I knew how. I shut her out again, though the act carved deep into my soul. For the rest of the night, I bantered idly with dignitaries, sunken deep in despair. My night was already ruined. Unfortunately, it only got worse from there.

"To my surprise, Anna came bouncing back to me later in the night. Strangely, she seemed happier, and she was definitely more flushed than before. Only, this time she was dragging a man along behind her. A very handsome man, who kept smiling at Anna as she looked back to him with dreamy eyes. She introduced him as Prince Hans of the Southern Isles. Though the man seemed mannered enough, something bothered me about the way he held my sister's hand. What happened next made everything frighteningly clear. Your aunt asked my blessing for their marriage."

Thomas was incredulous. "What! To a man she just met?"

Elsa nodded, a sad light in her eyes. "Yes. She was so desperate for love! But at that time, I reacted as you did. Remember what I said about emotions building up? At that moment, the combination of guilt, despair, and anger was simply too much. I gave Anna a flat, outright 'no', telling her how stupid she was, how she knew nothing of true love. Prince Hans words went over my head; I ordered the guards to end the party, to close the gates once more. I was done. I had to lock myself back up before I did something I regretted. But it was already too late.

"Anna would no longer be put off so easily. After finally making a chink in my walls, _she_ wasn't about to let me close myself off again. She tried to stop me by grabbing my hand, but she missed and took off my glove instead. At that moment, Anna had unwittingly made my greatest fear a reality. I was in a room full of people, all of whom were staring at us. Staring at me. The slightest slip, and I would have been revealed for the monster I was. And my only restraint had just been removed.

"To say I was panicked didn't do the emotion justice, Thomas. I was on the verge of exploding. I commanded your aunt to return my glove, as calmly as I could manage. But she refused, tears in her eyes. She couldn't live like that any longer, you see, couldn't stand the thought of going back into lonely isolation. To me however, it was the last straw. The frustration, the outright _anger..._ I wasn't in control any more.

"I was blind. I told Anna that if she couldn't stay… then she could leave. Harsher words I've never said to her. But, as you probably know, your aunt has quite the fiery temper herself. Once she gets going, oh, she is a force to be reckoned with."

The Queen shook her head. "I was so blinded by my own fears, I failed to acknowledge the pain I was putting my own sister through. But Anna could take it no more. Instead of backing off like I wanted her to, she chased me across the ballroom. Under the eyes of all the partygoers, she practically spat at me all the questions that had frustrated her since age five. Why did I shut her out? Why did I shut the world out? What was I so _afraid of? _The words… they cut into me like daggers, piercing straight into my heart."

Elsa laughed darkly. "But, alas, my sister was not the only one to be driven over the edge that night. There was simply too much raw _feeling_ to conceal any longer. This time, I did explode. But in a way Anna never thought possible. Told my sister _enough_, flicking my hand as if I could physically push her words away. Too late, I realized I had used the wrong hand. And suddenly there was an arc of icy spikes pointing out at the gathered audience, at _Anna_.

"Everyone was too shocked to move. Prince Hans was staring at me with an expression of disbelief. The Duke of Weselton shrank behind his bodyguards in fear. Before anyone could recover, I ran for the courtyard. But I hadn't thought about the people that were already there. The villagers swarmed me, oblivious to what had happened in the ballroom, vying for a glimpse of the new Queen of Arendelle. I was but a cornered animal by that point, and I acted that way. My powers were absolutely out of control in my panic. I backed into one of the fountains, freezing the water in midair. At least the crowd gave me a clear path for escape after that. By then, the partygoers had caught up to me, bursting out of the castle doors."

Elsa sighed. "Grand Pabbie said fear would be my enemy. At that moment, fear was all I knew. So I ran. Across the fjord, the water freezing beneath my feet. Into the forest, up the mountain slopes. To be honest, I had no idea where I was going. I found myself almost to the peak of the North Mountain, slowly coming to my senses after my panicked flight, with nothing all around but the swirling snow."

At this, a different light filled the Queen's eyes. "You would be surprised to find the revelations you can make while so utterly alone. Up there, amidst the winter elements, I felt… at home. _Liberated_. There, there was no one to judge me, no one I could possibly hurt. For once, I was truly free. And so I let it go. I cast off my other glove, letting my powers reign free. I did what I had wanted so much to do every time Anna knocked at my door. I built a snowman.

"A ravine lay in my path, and so I built a bridge. On the other side, there was nothing but the mountain… so I built my own palace, my Kingdom of Isolation. A place where I could live alone, away from the world. Where I wouldn't be able to hurt anyone, because there would be no one to hurt. By then it was as if every _thought _was springing to life from my fingers! The freedom of finally being able to use my powers without restraint, without fear… oh, it was wonderful. It was wonderful beyond compare. It was a new beginning for me. The past was in the past."

The Queen smiled wryly. "At least, that was what I thought. But on the afternoon of the second day after my coronation, I heard my palace doors open. A voice echoed off the walls, a voice I thought I would never hear again. The voice of my sister, calling my name."

"You must have been delighted to see her!" Thomas piped up.

His mother smiled. "Despite everything, yes. Ironically, the first worry that surfaced in my mind was how Anna would react to my new clothes. I had made myself a new dress out of ice, you see. One that was… less than modest."

The young prince made a face. "Mother!"

The Queen chuckled. "Alright, alright! So, Anna was set on bringing me back to Arendelle. Before I could continue the conversation, however, a _live snowman_ practically bounced into the palace."

"Olaf!" Thomas exclaimed. Elsa grinned.

"Indeed it was! I hadn't known I even _had_ the power to bring my creations to life, so seeing the little guy walking about was quite the shock. Anna seemed to love the snowman already, pointing out how similar Olaf was to one we had built as kids. We had been so close back then. How she wanted for it to be like that again!"

Thomas frowned. "But Mother, wasn't that also the night that you… hurt Aunt Anna?"

"Your aunt did not remember. Grand Pabbie's magic had removed those memories, you see. But I remembered that night all too well. So instead of convincing me to open up to her again, Anna's comparison had the opposite effect. I had to protect my dear sister, the only way I knew how. Through distance. My frustration began to build again. Why didn't Anna understand? Up there on the mountain, I could be what I was, without hurting anybody! I was alone, but I was _free!_

"But Anna was very persistent. She chased me through the palace, and finally caught up with me in the room behind the balcony. I tried to convince her to return to Arendelle without me. I told her that she was the Queen now. She could do what she wanted! Open the gates! If only she would stay away, she would be safe from my powers. Again, or so I thought.

"That was when Anna broke the news to me. The people _weren't_ safe from me. Arendelle was in deep snow. In July. In my panic, I had unleashed eternal winter upon my kingdom! I was beyond shocked. My sister made it sound so easy. 'Just unfreeze it!' she said! In truth, I didn't have the slightest clue as to how to do that. A life of trying in vain to avoid my powers, and I knew next to nothing about controlling them. The thought of my entire kingdom suffering in the bitter cold of winter, _my_ winter, reignited my fear and despair."

Elsa moved to stroke her son's hand. "Control? I had none of it. My emotions took over again, making my powers spiral into chaos. Snow began to fall, and an arctic wind started up. My sister stood her ground, still trying to calm my panic, still trying to convince me that the situation could be fixed. But the storm inside was too strong. I tried to warn her, but even the howling blizzard that threatened to blow your aunt away could not sway her in spirit.

"How could Anna have such faith in me? Could she not see I had no control over my _curse_? I didn't know how to reverse the winter! I couldn't! Everything slowly faded into the background. There was only panic. And with panic came release! There was too much raw _fear_ to contain. I couldn't stop it. A wave of pure magic exploded from my fingers. I saw my sister collapse onto the icy floor, clutching her heart, her face a mask of agony..."

Thomas gently tapped his mother's fisted hand. "Mother, it's snowing. In my room."

Elsa started, as if shaken from a trance. Slowly raising her hand to her cheek, she seemed surprised to find the rivulets of salt that had made their way down the pale skin. The snow slowed, and stopped. The Queen took a deep, trembling breath, pressing on.

"The very ice of the walls seemed to grow darker. Cracks spread beneath the surface, coming down from the ceiling with a low rumbling sound. All the while, only one thought existed in my mind. What had I done?

"Suddenly, a burly man in winter furs rushed into the room, shouting my sister's name and hurriedly moving to help her up. Despite it all, I was exasperated at the sight. Was this yet _another_ fiancé? It didn't matter, though. Anna was not safe here. She had to leave before I hurt her again, or the man. My sister still remained stubborn as ever, saying that she would not leave without me. I did not give her a choice this time. I created Marshmallow."

"So _that's_ what Aunt Anna meant when she said creating Marshmallow wasn't completely thought through!" Thomas cut in, realization dawning on his face. Elsa nodded sadly.

"At that moment, I just needed Kristoff and Anna out of the palace. Marshmallow did his job well, though it seemed my sister took a lot of persuading before she left. Soon I was alone once more. But the happiness of freedom had completely left me. In its place was crippling fear. I had to get it together, but I had no idea how to control my powers! My frustration and panic just made it so much worse. What had my father taught me? Conceal, don't feel. But no matter how hard I tried, I could not stop _feeling!_

"Fear, Thomas. Fear had me in its clutches. So powerful it was that it transformed the once beautiful chamber into a nightmare, the walls glowing a sickly red, icy spikes worming their way to the surface, stabbing the air at wicked angles. Yet still I stayed, isolating myself even though I knew it was useless. Hiding from the world like the coward I was. Were it not for the soldiers, I would probably never have mustered the courage to leave.

"But the soldiers did come. I heard Marshmallow's enraged roars from outside the palace. I rushed to the gates and saw a group of about fifteen men, Prince Hans their leader, battling my guardian at the foot of the staircase. I quickly shut the doors, but it was too late. Two men had already spotted me, and they were racing up the stairs. The Duke of Weselton's guards.

"Once again, I ran. Through my palace, up the spiralling stairs, into my chamber behind the balcony. But there was no where left to go after that. The men had cornered me. By the way they leveled their crossbows at my forehead, there was no mistaking their intent. The Duke had sent his assassins to kill me! I barely choked out a plea for mercy before the first bolt came at me. I raised my hands instinctively to protect my head, though I knew it was in vain. But the bolt never hit. Even though they had been the bane of my existence for years, my powers protected me. When I opened my eyes, I saw that a sheet of ice had formed in front of my raised hand, catching the bolt in mid air.

"The Duke's men seemed quite shocked by then, but they were trained assassins, and quickly resumed their attack. I warned them to stay away. Even though they were trying to kill me, these men were still _people_, and I was scared to death of having to use my powers to protect myself. Unfortunately, the men were far too determined to end my life to listen to the warning. I have to admit, my instincts took over at that point. I was not prepared to die.

"I pinned one of the men to the wall with a cluster of ice spikes. An almost _feral_ excitement was beginning to fill my mind. I realized that I _wanted_ to use my powers on these men. I conjured a heavy slab of ice, making it move to the next man, pushing him helplessly toward the balcony. The doors shattered, revealing the sheer drop beyond, yet I continued to force the man toward the edge.

"Whatever you do, Thomas, always _think_. Fear can so easily become anger. Anger is but a step away from hate. And when your heart is full of hate, as mine was, even the most horrible acts can be committed. No matter what happens, you must _never_ use your powers to hurt another."

"But, Mother! You were about to push the man off the balcony!"

The Queen hung her head. "Actions I will regret to the end of my days, Thomas. I shudder to imagine the outcome had the battle not been interrupted. But it was. Prince Hans finally burst into the room with the rest of the soldiers. I was too focused on the Duke's men to even turn around at first, but Hans' words snapped me out of it. Words that will haunt me to my grave. 'Queen Elsa, don't be the monster they fear you are!' What was so horrifying about the words was the truth they held. I realized that, for one deadly moment, I had wanted to _kill_ my assassins. The terrible revelation froze me on the spot.

"The man whom I had pinned to the wall was much more determined than I gave him credit for. Even staring at the face of death, he still continued with his mission. With me in my shocked state, the man took aim with his crossbow again! Thankfully, Prince Hans took notice. He leapt at my would-be assassin, redirecting the crossbow high above its target. Unfortunately, the bolt still flew, slicing through the support that held the huge ice chandelier above my head in place. I tried frantically to scramble out of the way, but hard ice met the back of my head, throwing me into a world of darkness.

"Now that I think back to it, I wonder if that hadn't been Hans' plan in the first place. To crush me under the chandelier and be done with it…

"I woke to find harsh stone walls glaring down at me. It was all too obvious where I was. I had been locked in my own dungeons. The barred window on the wall drew my attention. Though it was the height of July, the light coming from outside was strangely grey. Realization dawned on me. I ran to the window, but found myself jerked to a halt by my arms. I looked down to find my hands completely covered in iron manacles, thick chains trailing back behind me. But the scene outside the window was far, far worse. I saw ships trapped on the frozen surface of the fjord, snow falling heavily, smothering the land in frigid white. The fear and desperation returned full force. What had I done?

"The cell door opened, and in walked Prince Hans, shivering in the bitter cold, his breath forming puffs of fog in front of his face. Despite everything, I was angry. He had some nerve to put the _Queen of Arendelle_ in a dungeon! I asked, no _demanded_ why he had locked me up. He sighed, saying he couldn't have just let them kill me. At that, I gave a start. Had the prince really been looking out for my survival? Truly, I _was_ a danger to my kingdom. The eternal winter proved that.

"But no. Because, mere hours later, it was Hans' men who came battering at my door. He had come to execute me after all. Even that Duke of Weselton had come. I could hear his voice just outside my cell door, warning the guards to move quickly because of how dangerous I was. But I was not ready to die. My powers reacted to my fear. The manacles that covered my hands frosted over, then began to groan and turn blue! The ice raced down the chains, sealing the door shut, giving me just that much more time...

"Oh, oh, Mother!" Thomas cut in excitedly, "I remember my physical sciences tutor teaching me this! When iron gets extremely cold, it can break like glass, right? Is that how you escaped?"

Elsa smiled at her son. "Yes, eventually. It really was quite a close call, though. And blasting through the wall… I still don't know how I managed it, but I did.

"Out on the open fjord, my powers truly raged out of control. Though there was already a blizzard, but what I created was more like a cyclone. I watched helplessly as columns of thick, roiling clouds began to spiral up from the ground, obscuring everything in opaque grey. The wind picked up to hurricane force. I couldn't see; I couldn't _think!_ My emotions consumed me again. The furious tempest seemed to grow even more intense, snow flying almost horizontally through the air. Time lost all meaning. There was only the storm.

"But then there came a voice, straining to be heard above the wind. A voice I _never_ wanted to hear again. Prince Hans had found me. His hair was blown into a wild mess, his meagre coat offering little protection from the blizzard raging on around me. 'Elsa, you can't run from this!' he shouted. The statement had me stop in my tracks. Was that what I was doing? Running away? The thought had me turn around, had me tell the prince my final, desperate wish.

"'Just take care of my sister!' I said.

"Hans continued to advance, the sword handle protruding from his belt glinting dangerously. But it was his words that cut into my heart. 'Your sister?' he scoffed. 'She returned from the mountain weak and cold! She said that _you_ froze her heart!' It was as if my very soul had turned to ice at that moment. I felt faint, unable to fully comprehend the full horror of it all. No! Not Anna! Not my dear sister!

"But Hans was far from done. 'I tried to save her, but it was too late! Her skin was ice, her hair turned white!' I remembered that night in the ballroom all those years ago, when I had struck Anna with my magic. Her skin had turned ice cold, and a streak of white had appeared in her strawberry hair. Which meant… Hans was telling the truth. I withered as if the prince's words were physical blows. But the worst had yet to come. Hans glared at me balefully. 'Your sister is _dead!_ Because of _you!_'

"My heart was gone. Carved from my chest, leaving a black void where it used to be. Before, I had felt horror. Now, I was simply… empty. My body crumpled onto the frozen surface of the fjord, the sound of the storm fading away into utter silence. I heard the clear ringing of Hans drawing his blade from behind me. I closed my eyes. I'd killed my sister. I was more than ready to die. I welcomed it. I deserved it.

"But Anna was not dead. She was close, so very close, but not quite. As Hans' blade whistled down to end my miserable existence, a shadow fell over me. I heard your aunt's voice cry out, accompanied by the sound of freezing ice. There was the sharp crack of snapping steel, and I saw Hans get hurled onto his back, going limp as his head connected with the cold frozen surface of the fjord. In a daze, I looked up.

"Standing over me was the most exquisite ice statue I had ever seen. Its feminine figure was backed by a heavy winter cloak that billowed out behind it, and one hand was raised as if shielding against a great force. But it was the face that brought me painfully back to reality. The face of my sister, forever frozen in time. My heart was shoved violently back into my chest, only to be eviscerated in my complete and utter sorrow at the sight! I threw myself on the statue that was once my sister, crying as I had never cried before, pouring out my wretched soul, bitter tears of grief and regret flowing freely down my cheeks.

"But then something strange began to happen. Anna's cloak grew soft again, colour slowly seeping back into the ice. Her arms fell to at her sides, and she slumped into my arms, exhausted, but alive! The relief that washed over me kept me clinging to her all the harder. Anna was alive.

"After what seemed like an eternity, I asked my sister the question that haunted my heart. After all I had done, after all I had hurt her… why would she sacrifice herself to save me? And you know what your aunt said, Thomas? 'Because I love you.' Plain and simple. _Love _was the answer all along, Thomas."

The dying embers of the fire glowed in the hearth, flickering off Elsa's soulful eyes. "Love will thaw. If only I had let myself open my heart to my sister's love, I would have gained control long, long ago. Isolation lead, and will only lead to fear and despair. Although at times you may need to conceal, always, always allow yourself to _feel_. Love will always be stronger than fear. Always."


	10. Invitations From Afar

_**Disclaimer: Disney owns Frozen and Tangled. Yes, Tangled.**_

* * *

**Chapter 10: Invitations From Afar**

As Thomas entered his teen years, his royal studies intensified. The young prince was forced to memorize the tediously long list of royal and noble titles, and could soon draw the map of Arendelle in his sleep. Previously trivial subjects such as arithmetic and rhetoric increased to almost painful difficulty, consuming far more time and effort than ever before. However, all of this was nothing compared to Thomas' language studies.

As the Crown Prince and future King, Thomas was going to have to be fluent in all the major languages of Europe. Knowing this full well, Elsa and Henrik hired tutors for their son on almost ten such languages (having to re-hire several times due to some tutors having an aversion towards talking snowmen). The young prince soon found himself regarding his new courses with great frustration. Swedish and Danish were close to Thomas' mother tongue of Norwegian, and so presented little challenge; but languages such as English and Russian were completely different, making learning them a strenuous and gruelling task. But the language that was the object of Thomas' utter hatred was, alas, French.

"_Bonjour!_" The aged French tutor was always cheerful to the point of absurdity, his fat moustache like grey slug atop the man's lip, wriggling as he spoke.

"_Bonjour, monsieur_," Thomas replied halfheartedly.

"_Comment ca va, aujourd'hui?_" The tutor gave an expectant smile, patiently waiting as Thomas struggled desperately for an answer.

"_Ca va… _Uh... _Ca va bien?_"

In the far corner of the room, Sir Gingivere's palmed his face (or lack thereof) with an audible clank.

The tutor tsked, wiggling his finger in front of the young prince's face "Your lack of practice this week is evident. Repeat after me! _Comment ca va? Ca va bien! Ca va mal! Ca va comme ci comme ca!_"

Thomas groaned, secretly wishing he could freeze the man's moustache off and be done with it. "_Comment ca va? Ca va bien_…"

To Thomas' dismay, his cousins shared little of the young prince's new burdens. Annabeth and Christopher still lived carefree lives, their studies hardly even changing with their increasing age. When confronted about the situation, Elsa smiled, feeling more than a little empathetic for her son.

"Oh, Thomas, you are the heir! Of course you're going to have to work harder than everyone else." The Queen looked her son in the eyes, gently holding the boy's hand. "People will always need someone to look up to. Someone to lead them. Someone to _fight for_. As King, you will be that someone. And in order to gain your subjects' loyalty, you must prove yourself to be a solid and capable leader. That capability will only come from education."

Elsa smoothed back a platinum-blonde lock from Thomas' face. "The crown is a heavy burden to bear, Thomas. The work you have now is but a fraction of the work you will have as King." There was a hint of wryness in the Queen's smile. "Get used to it."

But studying alone never made a strong leader, and Elsa knew the fact all too well. What Thomas needed was experience; experience that could only be attained through real life interaction with people. After all, the young prince's studies would be for nothing if he didn't put his new skills to practical use. With this in mind, it seemed almost a strange stroke of fortune when the invitation came.

* * *

_His Majesty the King, Eugene Fitzherbert_

_and_

_Her Majesty the Queen, Rapunzel Fitzherbert_

_invite your attendance_

_to the festivities_

_in honour of the seventeenth birthday of their son_

_Warner Fitzherbert_

_to be held on Monday, the fifteenth day of August_

_eighteen hundred and thirty-one_

_in the Kingdom of Corona_

Thomas read over the invitation slowly, an inkling of excitement beginning to build within his chest. He looked up at his mother, who stood to the side of his table, watching him.

"Mother, isn't Queen Rapunzel a cousin of yours?"

"Yes, indeed! My own mother was the younger sister of her mother, making Rapunzel your…" Elsa paused in thought, finger to her chin. "...first cousin, once removed. That makes Prince Warner your second cousin."

The young prince frowned a little as he tried to make sense of the ranks of kinship, and gave up soon after. "And I thought the titles of nobility were confusing!" Thomas grumbled.

His mother laughed. "Don't worry, even I get caught up with family trees most of the time. Your aunt can barely get through nieces and nephews without getting lost!"

Rapunzel, Rapunzel... Why was that name so familiar? Thomas gave a start. "Wait, isn't Queen Rapunzel the one with the magical hair? The one who married that thief… Flynn, Flynn Rider?"

Elsa's smile tightened a little at the edges. "His real name is Eugene Fitzherbert, and he is certainly a thief no longer! He is the King of Corona now. He inherited the throne from Rapunzel's parents a good seven years ago. As for your cousin's magical hair, it was cut short during her battle with her kidnapper, Mother Gothel, and so lost all of its magical properties… Oh, I'm sure King Eugene will tell the tale much better than I can."

When he realized the implications of the statement, Thomas' excitement soared. "So we are going then! When will we depart? Oh, and can we take Sir Gingivere with us? I can't stand the thought of leaving the good knight behind! Who else is coming..."

The young prince's babbles were cut short by the creak of the opening door. In marched the good knight in question, nodding to his master, bending over in an elaborate bow to the Queen.

"Apologies for my intrusion, Master Thomas, Your Majesty, but I couldn't help but hear my mention in your conversation. May I inquire as to the topic that has Master Thomas' in such excitement?"

Elsa smiled courteously at Sir Gingivere. "Come now, there is no need for such formality between us! At ease, good sir! We are family, after all."

The knight bowed his head, and, had he a face, would have been grinning sheepishly. "I cannot help it, Your Majesty. It is part of who I am! Now, what of your conversation?"

To that, Thomas was more than happy to oblige. "We are going to the Kingdom of Corona to attend the festivities of my second cousin Prince Warner's seventeenth birthday!" the young prince quickly explained in a single breath, practically shoving the invitation letter in the knight's face. Sir Gingivere scanned over the paper, tapping his icy chin.

"Your second cousin, yes? But that would make one of Prince Warner's grandparents a sibling to one of your grandparents! All of whom were great monarchs. What a powerful lineage of rulers your family has, Master Thomas! But, alas, this does not explain why _I_ was being discussed in the conversation."

The Queen placed a gentle hand upon her son's shoulder. "My son cannot abide being parted from you, it seems, and wishes for your company on our voyage to Corona. What say you, Sir Gingivere?"

The knight seemed surprised at first, but quickly stood ramrod straight, placing a hand to his breastplate. "It would be my honour, Your Majesty." Sir Gingivere then proceeded to cock his head at Thomas in what was probably a teasing smirk. The young prince shrugged.

"What? I got to keep an eye on you! If Olaf has taught me anything, it's that if you leave a live snowman on his own, all sorts of strange trouble will occur." With that, Thomas turned back to his mother, almost bouncing with eagerness. "Well, what are we waiting for? Let's make preparations!"

* * *

The polished wood of the desk glinted tauntingly up at him, the piles of letters and trade agreements like flotsam in a sea of red. Oh, how he hated that infernal surface! His desk had come to represent all his failures, how all he did was in vain. Upon it he had spent a good portion of his _life_, working away for countless hours, the pen in his hand almost becoming a part of him. Yet no matter how many letters he wrote, agreements he signed, there was now little hope for the once great and wealthy Duchy of Weselton.

Ever since that scandalous _incident_ in Arendelle, the name of his land had been befouled. People were wary, eyeing him with distrust during diplomatic meetings, and keeping a safe distance from the nation whose leader attempted the murder of a Queen. His vast trade network had crumbled as news of the scandal reached other lands, and the treasury had dried up with it. Without supplies, mere _survival_ had become uncertain, and there had been a mass exodus from Weselton when the harsh winters finally became unbearable without the traded goods the nation had once taken for granted. Never mind the fact that the wicked sorceress whom he had tried rid the world of held utter control over the winter elements!

He wearily ran a hand through his frail grey hair. Age had not been kind to the Duke of Weselton. At times like this, it was as if he could _feel_ the energy draining from his decrepit body, his very life force a feeble flame sputtering at the tip of a dying candle. A sudden rage overcame the Duke. All those wasted years, _decades_, for nothing!In a single, furious motion, he sent the piles of parchment atop his desk flying about his study in a blizzard of white and yellow. A _blizzard_, of all things!

The Duke leapt from his chair and paced the room, practically vibrating with anger. When it came down to it, his entire demise could be traced down to one name. The name of the one person whom he both hated and feared utterly. Queen Elsa of Arendelle. When that wretched _sorceress_ was discovered for who she was, did the citizens of her kingdom burn her at the stake as she rightfully deserved? No. They seemed to care not that their ruler was a monster, that their Queen could plunge them into winter whenever she pleased! Instead, they seemed to simply _adore_ Elsa, and remained completely loyal to their Snow Queen, snow and all!

What truly irked the Duke more than he dared to admit was how _successfully_ the Queen of Arendelle ruled. Since the Great Thaw, the Kingdom of Arendelle had enjoyed great peace and prosperity, things that were now but faraway dreams for Weselton. As his nation's trade network had collapsed, theirs had grown and grown, with many of the Duke's original partners turning to Arendelle when news of his assassination attempt reached their ears. An assassination that would have been successful if not for a certain Prince of the Southern Isles…

At this, the Duke turned on his heel and began pacing in the other direction, a finger to his moustache in contemplation. Now that he really thought about it, there was another who had been key to his downfall. The man who thwarted the Duke's assassins from killing the Queen, only to attempt to cut her down himself. Prince Hans of the Southern Isles, and his diabolical secret agenda. At least _he_ had gotten his just desserts, incarcerated in his own kingdom, and by his own brothers at that! In fact...

The Duke's musings were brought to an untimely halt when the heel of his boot slipped upon one of many pieces of parchment scattered about the hardwood floor. The aged man unbalanced, nearly toppling over, his arms pinwheeling frantically in an attempt to right himself. When he finally managed to place both feet firmly on the floor, he glared at the offending letter with contempt. Swiping it from the ground, the Duke was on the verge of ripping it to shreds when his eyes caught the message on the paper.

_His Majesty the King, Eugene Fitzherbert_

_and_

_Her Majesty the Queen, Rapunzel Fitzherbert_

_invite your attendance_

_to the festivities_

_in honour of the seventeenth birthday of their son_

_Warner Fitzherbert_

_to be held on Monday, the fifteenth day of August_

_eighteen hundred and thirty-one_

_in the Kingdom of Corona_

The Duke leaned back a little, scrutinizing the letter in his hand with squinted eyes, other hand on his moustache once more. Corona was an enigma. While almost all the other nations had repealed their trade agreements, the Kingdom of Corona had remained a steady partner with Weselton, and trade had continued with little change from before. What was even more bizarre was the fact that Corona was not only close allies with Arendelle, but the Queen of Corona was actually a relative of the Queen of Arendelle's. Indeed, the monarchy of Corona certainly had not been friendly towards the Duke after the _incident_, and his denied requests for a personal audience with them was testament to the fact. He could never decipher the true motives behind Corona's continued trade with Weselton...

Despite everything, the Duke's curiosity was piqued. Attending the festivities at Corona could possibly grant him a chance to speak with the royals in person, to discuss matters of importance regarding both their nations. The excitement of his younger self had been awakened. This could be his chance to finally figure Corona out once and for all. This could be his chance to gain a strong political ally to Weselton!

"_Gilbert!_" His decision made, the Duke called for his steward. The short, potbellied man quickly made himself present, surveying the mess in the study with horror. At the sound of the Duke's clearing throat, however, the man shook himself and stood smartly to attention.

"You summoned me, Your Grace?"

The Duke handed the (slightly damaged) invitation letter to his steward, barely even giving the man a chance to read before he gave his commands. "Make travel preparations for me and a dozen of my best Ducal Guards. We leave for the Kingdom of Corona within a fortnight!"

"Yes, Your Grace!" Gilbert bowed hurriedly and scurried from the room, letter clutched in hand. The Duke of Weselton eased himself back into his chair, kicking aside a couple of scattered papers as he did so. There was a glint in his spectacled eyes, a devious smile upon his face like in glorious days of old. _Ah, Corona! My most mysterious trade partner! Open up those gates so I can unlock your secrets and exploit your riches!_

* * *

Negotiations within the Arendellian royal family usually consisted of Anna's side arguing amongst themselves while Elsa's side looked on with amusement. The aftermath of the invitation from Corona being made known was little different.

"I'm going, so you're coming too!" stated Anna with her nose in the air, the stamp of her foot muffled by the carpet of the Portrait Room. Joan of Arc seemed to glare down at Kristoff, siding with Anna as always. The mountain man scratched the back of his head, glancing uneasily at the painted audience situated about the room, giving his wife a helpless little shrug.

"Sorry, Anna, but I gotta stay and take care of my ice business! It's high summer, and it's bound to be a busy month!"

"Pfft! Aren't there other ice harvesters? Your business will survive without you for one little month!"

"I…uh!" Kristoff sputtered, but before he could think of a retort, his wife cut in again.

"Exactly! You have no good reason for staying in Arendelle! Plus, Eugene's been asking about you ever since our last visit!" At that, there was an audible laugh from Henrik from his position on the couch. The King leaned forward, hands clasped in front of him.

"Fitzherbert was quite the… adventurer back in his day, or so I've heard. I think your existence brings a measure of comfort to the man! After all, you two have backstories more similar than you would like to admit!" Henrik gave a wink at his brother-in-law. "Take it from me; it is never wise to disappoint a king. Go on! I'm sure you will enjoy some time abroad!"

The Queen laughed as well. "I suppose _you_ are still set on staying, love?"

The King gave his wife a grin. "Alas, kingdoms do not run themselves! Besides, I have been letting you do more than your share of the royal duties for far too long! It is high time for you to take a much needed break from responsibility, my Queen."

"Well, if you so insist!" Elsa relented dramatically.

Christopher leaned over to Thomas. "Why can't my parents agree with each other like that? It would certainly save a whole lot of time if they didn't bicker over everything!"

"I heard that!" came Anna's shout from across the room. Thomas snickered a little at his older cousin's misfortune.

"So, that's _Kristoff_, Anna, Annabeth, Christopher, Elsa, and Thomas that will be travelling to Corona," a rather flustered Kai recapped, jotting down the names on a scroll of parchment. "Did I miss anyone?"

"Oh! You seem to have forgotten me!" exclaimed Sir Gingivere, coming to life from his placement beside the grandfather clock. Kai looked over his scroll at the knight, tapping his pen on his chin.

"Would you prefer to be listed as a party guest or as a member of the Royal Guard?" the servant inquired. "Your presence will certainly be cause for great disruption, regardless…" he couldn't help but mutter afterwards.

Before the knight could answer, Thomas suddenly remembered the _other_ live snowman in the family. "Oh, that reminds me! Is Olaf coming with us?"

"Good heavens, no! Could you imagine how the citizens of Corona would react to a live snowman in their midst? Bringing Sir Gingivere along is already a risk as it is!" the Queen exclaimed.

"Yeah, it took long enough for the people of _this_ kingdom to stop running around screaming at the sight of him," Kristoff muttered. "For his sake, it think Olaf has had enough screaming and fainting for a good while!"

"So it is settled then?" Kai asked tiredly. "No more _last minute_ changes?"

"I believe so," Elsa agreed, looking over to her sister. "Unless Anna has any more requests?"

"Nope!" the younger sister stated. "I got Kristoff to come. My work here is done!"

"Very well. Majesties and Highnesses, the preparations for your voyage should be complete within a fortnight, at the latest." With that, Kai turned on his heel and marched smartly out the door.

From her vantage on the wall, Joan of Arc gazed mournfully down at the assembled royals, as if she already knew of the dark happenings to come.

* * *

_**For the sake of knowledge, the characters' ages are (during this and the next few chapters) as follows: Elsa (41), Henrik (42), Anna (38), Thomas (14), Christopher (16), Annabeth (17), the Duke of Weselton (75)**_

_**As always, PLEASE REVIEW!**_


	11. Over the Horizon

_**Disclaimer: Frozen is a fabulous movie; a movie of which I own nothing.**_

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**Chapter 11: Over the Horizon**

For the past few decades, Captain Norman Edwards of the Arendellian Royal Fleet had seen far too little of the open sea for his liking. Granted, the Queen certainly had cause to fear the ocean, given the fates of her deceased parents; but as a sailor who now spent most of his days on dry land, the captain couldn't help but feel resentment at being stuck upon the shore while his heart yearned so for the sea.

The ship, forever moored to its post on the harbor, its sails deprived of the ocean winds, seemed just as dejected as its captain. A mighty galleon of times bygone, the _Albatross_ was quite a sight to behold despite its considerable age. Legend was that the first King of Arendelle had ordered its construction himself, to be his personal vessel for travel on the high seas. The _Albatross_ had certainly had its share of adventure back in the day; now it was but an inert ornament in an otherwise bustling fjord. Though traditionally there were two ships in the Royal Fleet reserved for the royal family, after the _Majesty_ met its demise in the storm that claimed the lives of the previous monarchs, no orders or funds had been given for a replacement ship. So the _Albatross_ sat alone in the harbor, unmanned and unused, swaying as if in silent mourning for its lost partner.

It was thus that Kai found Captain Edwards, leaning on the rear mast of his ship, a faraway look in his eyes. The sun was just cresting over the horizon, its light glistening on the fjord in a streak of liquid gold, imbuing all it touched with the exuberance of dawn. At the servant's clearing throat, the sailor shook himself back into the present, turning his piercing gaze in the direction of the sound. When his eyes alighted on Kai, the corners of the captain's mouth pulled up in a wide smile.

"Well, hello, Kai! It's been quite the while since we've last seen each other!" The sailor spread his arms wide, motioning for an embrace. After a moment of hesitation, Kai conceided to the hug.

"Far too long, agreed! How is an old sailor like you doing after all these years?"

The men pulled apart, Captain Edwards taking a seat on the polished wooden railing of his ship, beckoning the servant to do the same.

"Oh, things could be worse, I guess. It's just that there's so little to do these days. The royals barely ever travel by sea anymore! I can certainly understand why, but I miss dearly the ocean breeze, the salty spray from the bow as I sail into the sun... But what's a man to do?" The sailor shook his head slowly, suddenly melancholy as he reminisced of days past. However, when he turned to face Kai again, the smile was back. "Anyways, you probably didn't come all this way just to make small talk with this old sea dog! Tell me, how can I help you?"

"You miss the sea, do you not? Well, my friend, I have some good news for you!" The servant produced a small scroll of parchment from behind his back, unrolling it to show to the captain. "Her Majesty has recently received an invitation from the King and Queen of Corona for her and her family's attendance to the festivities in honour of the Crown Prince of Corona's seventeenth birthday, to be held on the fifteenth day of August." There was a long pause, as Kai was quite out of breath by the end of that particular sentence.

Captain Edwards took the scroll into his hands, slowly scanning over the contents.

"Queen Elsa has requested your service for the transport of the royal family to and from the Kingdom of Corona," Kai finished with a smile. "What do you say?"

A slow grin made its way onto the captain's face, and it was as if the burdens of age and sadness sloughed off the man's shoulders in an instant. "Would you be so kind to fetch General Raimund of the Royal Navy? We have some things to discuss, preparations to make!"

Kai smiled as well. "Splendid! I will send for the Captain of the Royal Guard and the Queen herself, as well." The servant patted his friend on the shoulder. "Captain Edwards, you are in for quite the heated argument!" With that, Kai walked off the _Albatross_, back in the direction of Arendelle Castle, leaving a now slightly worried and bemused captain on the deck of his ship.

* * *

The Duke of Weselton stepped slowly onto the _Swiftwater_, the shine of his boots a stark contrast to the dull planks of the deck. The Ducal Guard followed their charge closely, marching in unison on board the brigantine, faces emotionless as if their features were carved of stone. The Duke strutted up and down the ranks of his guards, examining the men closely. To their credit, the Guard remained utterly motionless, a dozen silent sentinels in the rising sun.

"You are to follow my every order, no matter what the circumstances." The Duke paced the deck, looking into the eyes of every man in the ranks. "You are to put my life above your own, to protect me at all costs!" He stopped in place, planting his boot firmly onto the floorboards with a click of his heel. "Is that understood?"

"_Sir, yes, sir!_" came the unanimous reply.

The Duke nodded in satisfaction. "Very well. To your quarters, men! We have a long journey ahead of us." Turning to the captain, he raised his hand straight into the air. "Loose the moorings! Anchors aweigh! We sail for Corona!"

The aged brigantine pulled slowly from the harbor, its sails billowing in the wind, the dark emblem of Weselton glaring defiantly out at the breaking dawn. The Duke walked to the prow of his vessel, arms held stiffly behind his back, the ocean breeze blowing his coattails out behind him. His expression was one of grim determination.

_To Corona_.

* * *

"I _will not_ concur to having two fully armed frigates flanking my ship!" the Queen exclaimed. Elsa placed her hands onto the cabin desk, palms together, her icy blue eyes utterly resolute. "Gentlemen, I realize my safety is of high concern. However, such a show of military force is not only completely unnecessary, but will act as a detriment to our reputation! We are journeying to Corona for a vacation, not to conquer the kingdom!"

"But, Your Majesty, it will be difficult to accommodate for all of the Royal Guard here in the _Albatross_ alone!" the Captain of the Guard protested. The Queen sighed, clasping her hands together slowly. She turned her unwavering gaze up to the man.

"Then lower the number of guards. You undoubtedly plan for a small army to accompany us to Corona, but once again, that is completely unnecessary! The monarchy of Corona are close friends and my family's relatives. I am certain they can lend some of their Guard to assist us if the need arises!" Elsa looked to General Raimund. "And besides, I highly doubt anyone present will be of the slightest danger to me or my family. Our only real political enemy is Weselton, and the Duke is unlikely to be stupid enough to try another assassination, given how well his last attempt turned out."

There was a noticeable cringe in both military men at the mention of the incident.

"If that… _event_ has taught us anything, it is that it is better to be safe than sorry," the General stated solemnly. The Captain of the Guard nodded darkly.

From his position in the corner, Captain Edwards watched the proceedings with baited breath. Kai certainly had not been exaggerating the intensity of the argument! With each passing moment, the sailor grew less and less convinced that he should even be present for this. It wasn't as if he was getting a say in anything, anyway...

"...Captain Edwards. Captain Edwards!"

The captain's head snapped to attention at the sound of General Raimund's voice.

"I'm sorry?"

The General cleared his throat. "To repeat, what is the exact number of living quarters available on this ship?"

"Well, I would have to check to be certain, but... just over three hundred, I'd say?" The captain's brow furrowed in thought. "Take away the living space needed for the sailors…" He looked to the Queen. "...and the royal family, of course, and you have room for about a hundred and fifty other men."

General Raimund stroked his beard. "Hmm… yes, enough room for a company of guards, and a decent number of men to operate the cannons."

At this, Elsa started, whirling to face the General, an expression of incredulity on her face. "Wait, _cannons?!_"

The General blinked. "The _Albatross_ was built to house over eighty cannons, to be used for defense of the ship should there ever be the need. We must be prepared for every eventuality, Your Majesty."

The Queen seemed on the verge of saying something else, but then slumped back into her chair, kneading the bridge of her nose with two fingers. "Very well, just as long as we keep the portholes _completely_ shut unless there is a dire need to actually use the armaments."

General Raimund bowed, obviously relieved to have finally reached an agreement. "Of course, Your Majesty."

The Captain of the Guard produced a pen from his breast pocket. "So, that will be ninety Royal Guards along with… fifty, let's say, in reserve to man the cannons?" The man looked tentatively over to the Queen. "Agreed?"

Elsa nodded. "Agreed. When shall we be ready for departure?" All eyes turned to Captain Edwards.

"Uh, ahem! With the preparations you have requested, two days, no more." The sailor fidgeted nervously under the heavy stares. "Um, I will get my men to start loading the _Albatross _promptly, shall I?"

* * *

Thomas looked out over the fjord from the window of his room, the calm waters glistening in the morning light. To think that, within a week, he would be further away from home than even the mountains that surrounded the kingdom, at a distance so enormous he could barely _comprehend_ it. The young prince raised his gaze out across the sea, for the first time truly realizing its utter vastness. Out there lay lands unknown, tales untold. Out there lay the world beyond the horizon.

_Out there lie the bodies of my grandparents._ Suddenly, an icy fear seized Thomas. What if he were to share their fate, to sail out into the great blue, never to return? What if he never saw Father again? A slight crackling sound registered in the young prince's ears. Looking down, he found that frost had formed on the windowsill beneath his fingers. He shook himself, screwing his eyes shut. _Control. No fear. No fear! Father's always returned from his travels to other kingdoms. I will too! _But the frost continued to creep up the window pane.

"Aaah! _No fear!_" In his frustration, a burst of magic left Thomas' hand, wicked spikes of ice exploding outwards from him. The young prince sank to his knees amidst the chaos, tears of shame welling up in his eyes. _What did Mother say? Love is stronger than fear! But no amount of love could save my grandparents from the depths!_

The door opened abruptly, the soft clanking of ice on marble quickly moving to Thomas' side. "Master Thomas, what seems to be the matter?"

Thomas turned his head to find Sir Gingivere looking down upon him from outside the tangle of spikes, head cocked to one side in concern. The young prince wiped at his eyes with a sleeve.

"Oh, Sir Gingivere, what a coward I am! Mere days from my first journey aboard a ship and now I suddenly fear we are to sink and drown!"

"Well, that is a perfectly natural fear to have! Indeed, fear of the unknown is imbedded within our very souls! But think of it this way."

The knight had managed to skirt the icy spikes to place a comforting hand on his master's shoulder. "Have you ever heard of the saying, "There is nothing to fear, but fear itself"? Even the most lionhearted of us aren't immune to fear, Master Thomas. The key to staying courageous is to not _fear_ your fear. Take it for what it is. Fear simply points out to us what is dangerous, forces us to avoid trouble! So, if you really think about it, having a little fear is actually a good thing. But do not let your fears control you. Learn to move past them, to cast them aside if need be. _That_ is courage."

Sir Gingivere gently squeezed Thomas' shoulder. "Worry not, dear Thomas. We shall be quite alright, mark my words!"

The young prince sniffed. "You really think so?"

"Oh, I _know_ so!"

Thomas smiled up at his icy companion, the cold shards of panic in his heart seeming to melt away. The ice about the room slowly began to disappear, the temperature returning to the summer norm. The young prince sighed in relief. _Love will thaw._

Sir Gingivere clapped his master on the back. "I knew you had it in you! To Corona, Master Thomas?"

Thomas slowly stood, nodding firmly to the knight. His resolve hardened. No fear.

"To Corona."

* * *

"Watch your step, Highnesses! Yes, right this way!"

Captain Edwards beckoned the royal family up the wide gangplank, the sun overhead already the warm orange of late afternoon. Two Royal Guards waited readily on the deck of the _Albatross_, carefully helping the passengers on board. Many more men clad in Arendelle grey were situated about the ship, standing stiffly to attention. When every last person was safely aboard the vessel, the captain walked briskly up the gangplank himself, gesturing to the workers on the dock.

"Raise the gangplank and loose the moorings!"

The men did as they were bid, the ship listing slightly as the thick ropes that fastened it to the dock were untied, the knots falling into the water with a splash. Captain Edwards moved to the helm, spinning the wheel with expert hands, a grin spreading from ear to ear.

"Anchors aweigh! Let down the sails! Ladies and gentlemen, Majesties and Highnesses, we sail for the Kingdom of Corona!"

The mighty galleon cruised away from the harbor, slowly at first, but gradually picking up speed as it ploughed through the waves. Its shining white sails proclaimed the golden crocus of Arendelle out into the great yonder, the canvas afire in the light of dusk. From the shore, the clear ringing of silver trumpets resonated out toward the open sea, their song of farewell bittersweet in the setting sun.

On the deck, Christopher and Annabeth headed for the railings to enjoy the spectacular view, guards quickly flanking the royals to ensure their safety. Thomas and his mother stayed by the centre mast, Sir Gingivere standing silently beside them, armour plates glittering gold in the sun. The young prince couldn't help but shiver a little with apprehension. Making the commitment yesterday, while in the safety of his room, had been one thing; but now, sailing across open sea, the fear hit him anew. He shrank onto the solid wood of the mast behind him, desperately attempting to calm his churning stomach.

It was then that the call of the trumpets reached Thomas' ears. The soaring melody seemed to awaken a part of his spirit, to gently wipe his fears away. Tentatively at first, Thomas made his way to the prow of the ship. The endless expanse of water before him glowed radiant maroon as the sun made its way to the horizon. The ocean breeze lightly caressed the young prince's face, the salty spray from the bow cool and invigorating. The glorious scene before him seemed to melt straight into his heart, filling it with the joy and adventure of the high seas. How could he ever have _feared_ this? This freedom, this euphoria and rapture?

With an exultant whoop, Thomas threw his arms in the air, the hems of his coat billowing out behind him. There was a collective gasp from sailors and guards alike as snowflakes began to dance through the air around the young prince, a strong arctic wind suddenly pulling the sails taut above them. There was a hearty laugh from the helm.

"That's the spirit, lad!" Captain Edwards shouted. "Away we go!"

Sir Gingivere gave a laugh as well, his one of triumph.

"What did I say Master Thomas? Nothing to fear but fear itself!"

Thomas grinned up at the knight by his side.

* * *

The King of Arendelle stood tall atop the highest battlement of Arendelle Castle, gazing out over the vast sea. Already the _Albatross_ was but a fleck amongst the waves, backlit by the crimson light of the sunset, steadily taking his family away to lands afar. Though the sun reflected brilliantly off the water, painfully bright in Henrik's eyes, the King stood unmoving on the stone bricks, his grey stare fixed unwaveringly upon the distancing ship.

Unbidden, images of the immense gravestones of his dear wife's parents seared into his mind. Gravestones under which there were no bodies. The sea was a fickle mistress, caring little for those she felled in her wrath. The sea kept eternal ownership over the lives it claimed. Tears obscured Henrik's vision.

_God have mercy, be it not the lives of my loved ones._

Thus the King stood, and thus he stayed, looking out over the great blue long after the _Albatross_ was consumed by the setting sun.


	12. The Raging Storm

_**Disclaimer: Frozen is not mine. Tangled isn't either.**_

_**Soundtrack: "In This World or the One Below" - ACIV OST**_

* * *

**Chapter 12: The Raging Storm**

The Duke of Weselton sat idly behind the faded desk, the air of the cabin thick and musty. With every consecutive sway of the ship, the contents of the noble's stomach came that much closer to making a violent escape. The two guards flanking the door seemed unperturbed by the sickness that plagued their charge, though they often sneaked apprehensive glances at him as if fearing the sudden appearance of his lunch. The Duke had almost forgotten how much he hated seafaring. Dignity was the only thing that kept him from demanding the remaining duration of the journey to Corona at frequent intervals. Nonetheless, the Duke felt ready to tear the _Swiftwater_ apart plank by plank, the instant he set foot on dry land once more.

Three swift knocks on the door forced him to recompose himself for the moment.

"Who is it?" he snapped.

"Ahem! It's me, Captain Moore, Your Grace," came a gravelly voice from behind the worn wood. The Duke sighed, motioning to his guards.

"Let him in."

The door opened, the brilliant glare of the outside sun blinding the Duke for a moment. The briny ocean breeze prickled his nose, carrying an undertone of decaying fish. God, he hated the sea. With an expression of distaste, the Duke turned his bespectacled gaze to the man who had walked into the cabin.

"There had better be some good news, Captain."

"Ah, yes!" The bearded man seemed uneasy in the presence of his superior. "I have come to report that we have spotted land ahead. We shall make port in Corona before nightfall..."

The captain's words were cut short as the Duke all but leapt from the table, pushing past and bolting onto the deck. Turning to the first sailor at hand, he swiped the spyglass from the man's belt, pointing it past the bow and squinting through intently. There it was! A faint green line on the horizon, upon it a great castle glittering in the afternoon sun, and growing closer by the minute!

The Duke shoved the spyglass back at the befuddled sailor with hardly a glance, strutting back to his cabin with renewed vigor. His ordeal was almost at an end.

* * *

A drop of water made impact with Thomas' cheek. Another landed on his lips. Licking at the moisture, the young prince was surprised to find it pure and devoid of salt. He turned his gaze up past the prow of the _Albatross_ to find dark, roiling clouds obscuring the sky not far in the distance. A sudden peal of thunder, and everyone else on board was looking to the clouds as well, fear evident in many eyes.

A heavy hand landed on Thomas' shoulder.

"Your Highness, it would be best for you to get below decks. The captain thinks we won't be able to outmaneuver the storm, and it will be safest if you aren't here when it hits." The guard placed a hand on the small of the young prince's back, steering him toward the staircase behind the mainmast. Thomas shook the man off, shaking his head.

"A little rain never hurt anyone!" he retorted, though he couldn't stop the cold terror in his chest from showing through. The guard sighed, a pleading look on his face.

"Please, Highness! Your aunt, uncle, and cousins are already down there!"

"What about my mother?"

"Her Majesty was the one who instructed me to get you to safety in the first place!"

"_Where is my mother?_"

There was a sudden chill in the air. The guard shifted uneasily. "Her Majesty is having a conversation with the captain," the man relented, gesturing to the stern of the ship.

Without another word, Thomas ran for the quarterdeck, the guard keeping steady pace. The young prince could see the silhouette of his mother backlit by the lights of the cabin, the figure of Captain Edwards beside her with both hands on the wheel.

"...no way to go around the storm?" The Queen's agitated voice drifted down from the helm.

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty, but it's pulling us in! The _Albatross_ is a sailing vessel, and she can't sail against the winds!"

Elsa exhaled slowly, as if she was concentrating very hard on keeping a neutral expression. Spotting Thomas ascending the stairs up to the quarterdeck, her expression quickly changed to one of worry. Turning to the guard behind the young prince, the Queen fixed him with a steely glare.

"I told you to get my son below decks!"

The guard bowed his head. "My apologies, Your Majesty, but His Highness insisted on staying."

Elsa remained in tense silence for a long moment. Then she took a deep breath. "Very well. You are dismissed."

The guard bowed once more and walked back to his post. Thomas moved to his mother's side, eyeing the coming storm warily. Elsa looked to her son, almost unconsciously raising a hand to smooth back Thomas' hair. Though he thought such a show of motherly love slightly embarrassing, the young prince relaxed at the touch, nonetheless comforted by the familiar action. The Queen sighed.

"Why won't you go below decks and join Annabeth and Christopher?"

Thomas turned to face his mother. "But Mother, you're still out here!"

Elsa smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I am the Queen, Thomas, and I have a duty to fulfill. All these men look up to me, even pledged their _lives_ to me. How would it appear if their leader abandoned them in the face of calamity?"

Thomas squared his shoulders. "Then I will stay, too. Sir Gingivere told me courage is learning to put aside my fears. I will be courageous, Mother."

Elsa brushed the hair from Thomas' forehead. "I wish I was as brave as you when I was your age."

"But… but that's the problem, Mother. I'm _scared!_" Thomas trembled.

"It's alright... We'll be alright," Elsa murmured, as much to herself as to her son.

"How did this wonderful dream become such a nightmare?" Thomas whispered, an edge of fear creeping into his tone. His mother took hold of his hand.

"The sea is beautiful, yes, but she has a powerful temper," Captain Edwards said glumly, his brow furrowed at the looming storm. "And it seems she is angry today."

Thomas started, embarrassment momentarily blotting out his fear; he'd completely forgotten the captain's presence beside them. However, another peal of thunder, much closer this time, had the young prince instinctively gripping his mother's hand once more. The Queen gave her son a comforting squeeze, gazing out toward the storm with a dark expression on her face.

"The sea took my parents, Captain. To me, it will forever be a graveyard."

Captain Edwards nodded wearily. "Many a friend of mine was lost to the sea. Such is the life of a sailor."

A flash of lightning lit the faces of all on deck as fat drops of rain began pelting down from the blackening skies. The waves churned beneath the keel, spray from the hull drenching many a man who stood too close to the gunwale.

"Your Majesty, Your Highness, I would strongly recommend you get below decks right now!" Captain Edwards bellowed, suddenly having to fight the helm with all his strength.

A powerful gale ripped across the _Albatross_ from stern to bow, the ship giving a sudden lurch in the water. There was a panicked cry as a sailor almost lost his grip on the rigging, his fellow men quickly rushing to catch him lest he fall. Lightning flashed overhead, thunder roared like the wrath of gods, and sheets of unrelenting rain hammered onto the planked flooring. They had sailed into the storm.

Elsa looked to her son, who had his feet planted firmly upon the deck. Though he trembled with uncontained fear, there was a glint of fierce determination in his eyes. The storm would not best them. Her decision made, the Queen turned to the captain.

"We shall stay."

The man was too busy battling the wheel to give more than a glance to the royals. "Then, by God, hold on! This ride is about to get a whole lot wilder!"

As if on cue, a massive wave smashed into the bow, throwing sailors off their feet and setting the deck awash. The sails bulged in the howling winds, the ropes taut to the verge of snapping.

"Reef the mainsails further! The winds are too strong!" Captain Edwards struggled to be heard above the tumult of the storm. Sailors scrambled up the rigging, knives clenched in their teeth, not even bothering with the knots. The entire ship groaned as it listed from one side to the other, floundering in the merciless waves.

The captain's skin glistened with perspiration mixing with the downpour. The man's greying hair was tousled by the winds, his uniform clinging wetly to his aging frame. Nevertheless, his eyes bored out into the storm with defiant intensity. Defeat was not an option. "Hard to starboard!" the captain shouted, spinning the helm with all his might.

The _Albatross_ swayed dangerously as it nosed into a sharp turn, the bow slowly facing into the oncoming waves. Not quickly enough. A wall of water broadsided the ship, nearly dragging several sailors down into the abyss with it. The _Albatross_ rolled from the force of the blow, the deck tilting horizontally toward the heaving surface of the sea. Thomas was thrown off his feet, careening off the deck toward the churning waters below. Frantically, the young prince waved his arms, summoning a crude wall of ice to stop him from flying off the ship. There was a sharp scream from a panicked mother. Elsa whirled sharply to face Captain Edwards, her face a mask of rage.

"Are you _insane_?! You're going to capsize us and kill us all!"

"We will capsize anyway if I don't turn her around!" the captain yelled back. "_Hard to starboard!_"

Miraculously, the next swell that met the bow knocked the ship back upright. The _Albatross_ ploughed head-on into the waves, valiantly riding the crests and troughs, the deck surprisingly steadier than before. Thomas shook himself, finding himself unable to move. For an instant, the young prince feared the worst. Was he lapsing into a state of shock, having sustained a mortal injury? But, looking down, he realized the true root of his problem. Alas, his previously waterlogged clothing was now encased in solid ice, hard and unmoving around his body. The young prince mentally kicked himself.

_Must have froze it in my panic._

With a groan, Thomas concentrated on finding the warmth and comfort within his heart, the love that was the key to thawing the ice. _There_. The soothing energy flowed through his veins and out into the open air. His clothing slowly reverted to pliant cloth once more, the protective wall behind him disappearing with scarcely a sound. Moving slowly to his feet, the young prince heard the erratic clop of boots on deck as no less than ten of the Royal Guard quickly surrounded his position.

Before any of the men could make a move, however, his mother had pushed through their ranks. Elsa's hair was sodden and dripping, her dress utterly drenched by the storm, but she seemed to not even notice. Her demeanor emanated worry and anxiety, her icy blue eyes seeing only her son. She ran to Thomas, crushing him in the tightest of embraces. "Oh, Thomas! I thought I'd lost you!" The Queen's voice shook with emotion.

"I'm fine, Mother." Thomas struggled to keep his voice steady, giving his mother a reassuring smile.

The Queen grabbed the young prince by the shoulders, shaking him back and forth. "Don't you ever scare me like that again, young man!" The intensity of the command was nullified by the smile of relief on his mother's face. "Promise?"

Thomas grinned. "I'll try, Mother." That moment, the young prince could almost pretend he was being reprimanded for sliding down the banister, back in the familiar safety of Arendelle Castle. In a few moments, Aunt Anna would make her appearance and laugh merrily at how similar he was to her when she as a child. That suit of armour by the wall sure took its share of punishment back in the day...

Another crash of thunder dashed the veil from Thomas' eyes. He was not at home. He was on the deck of a ship bucking in a raging storm, the very storm that had proved deadly to his grandparents. He was lucky to even be alive! Aunt Anna wasn't even here to lighten the mood...

Thomas started. "What about Aunt Anna?"

There was a sizzling sound. The young prince looked to find frost spreading beneath the Queen's feet, her expression one of intense worry once more. She raised a hand to her forehead.

"How could I have forgotten!"

Elsa took long, swift strides down from the quarterdeck, making a beeline for the hatch that marked the staircase to the quarters below. Coalescing patterns of ice marked her passage on the slick planks of the deck, forcing the Royal Guards following the Queen to tread carefully, and thus, slowly.  
"Your Majesty, do be careful!" one called as the men fell steadily behind.

Thomas bolted after his mother, dodging sailors and guards left and right, unfazed by the ice on the floor. He _commanded_ the ice, and so he never slipped on it anyway. The young prince caught up to the Queen as she struggled with the latch on the trapdoor. The guards, who weren't far behind, rushed to assist their charge. They didn't quite make it.

The young prince's heart leapt to his throat as the _Albatross_ fell from the crest of a particularly large swell. The guards were knocked onto their backs, sliding helplessly about the deck as the bow of the ship rose to meet the next wave. Thomas grabbed hold of the mainmast, clutching at the wood for dear life as the _Albatross_ dropped once more, landing with a mighty splash in the valley between two moving walls of water.

"We're still moving too fast!" came the shout from the captain. "Put slack on the top mizzen!"

Sailors rushed to complete the order. As the ropes went slack, it was as if the bucking bull had been placated. The _Albatross_ slowly rose to the crest of the next wave, but this time, it stayed there. The sea still churned, and lightning still flashed overhead; but those on board felt nothing more than the rain upon their faces, even the fierce winds subsiding to a low breeze. There was a moment of blissful silence, before the cheers erupted.

"Ya did it, Cap'n!"

"Merciful God, we're saved!"

"Never a doubt in my mind, Cap'n!"

"Hah! Death? _Not today!_"

Amidst the chaos, the voice of the Crown Prince still carried through, clear and unmistakable.

"How did you do it?"

Captain Edwards' searching eyes found Thomas standing at the base of the mainmast, gazing up at him with wonder and praise. The captain gave the young prince a conspirational wink.

"First rule of sailing in a storm, lad! Go with it, not against it." The sailor laughed. "This old sea dog will sail another day!"

"Guards, I would very much appreciate it if you helped me open this hatch," Elsa reminded. The men quickly scrambled into action. Under the combined strength of two of the burly men, the trapdoor opened with a creak, revealing wooden steps leading into the darkness beyond. One of the guards walked down into the passage, beckoning for the royals to follow.

Thomas stepped into the gloom after his mother, his sense of foreboding growing with every step. Where were the lanterns, and why weren't they lit? There was a sudden flare ahead as the guard raised a lantern of his own to light the passage. His mother made a grab for his hand.

"Stay close, Thomas."

"I'm not going anywhere," the young prince replied, voice barely above a whisper.

The walls glowed pasty yellow under the flickering light of the lantern as they passed door after empty door. The silence was unnatural, as if there were cotton stuffed in Thomas' ears. The guard before them stopped, turning around to face the Queen.

"Your family's quarters should be right around this corner."

Elsa nodded. "Lead on."

The guard turned back around, swinging the lantern with him. What was revealed from the heavy gloom had the man flinching back in fear. Whereas previously there had been an empty corridor, now there stood a faceless suit of armour, the lantern light flickering eerily off the ice of which it was comprised. The entire entourage took an instinctive step back as the menacing figure marched toward them, the void behind the helmet terrifyingly riveting.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry to have startled you!" The figure raised his hands in a gesture of peace, Sir Gingivere's familiar voice breaking the tension. Thomas let go of the breath he didn't know he was holding in.

"Wow, you scared us for a moment there! Remind me never to let _you_ into a dark corridor again!" The young prince chuckled, still a bit shaken by the knight's sudden appearance. His mother, apparently unfazed by the new development, stepped toward Sir Gingivere.

"Where is Anna? Where is the rest of my family? Are they alright?"

"Of course, Your Majesty. Right this way!" The knight bowed, turning back in the direction from whence he came, the Queen and her son close on his icy heels. The guard recomposed himself, straightening his shako and following quickly after his charges.

Sir Gingivere lead them to a closed set of double doors flanked by four other Royal Guards. Upon seeing the Queen, the men hastily moved to open the doors. The room beyond was well lit by the lamps that were situated in each corner. From the entrance, Thomas could see the edge of an upholstered couch, as well as the face of his cousin, lit by amber lamplight.

"Auntie Elsa? Tom? What happened to you?" Christopher asked, eyeing his dripping aunt and cousin with concern.

"Let's just say it's very wet on deck right now," Thomas replied with a smirk.

"Don't worry about _us_. Where is your mother?" Elsa moved for the doorframe, but Christopher blocked her passage with his body. The Queen turned to her nephew, fixing him with a hard stare. "Christopher, what is the meaning of this?"

Christopher shifted nervously. "Let's just say it's not very pretty in there right now…"

"All the more reason for me to go in. Let me through!"

Christopher stepped aside, raising his hands in defeat. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

The smell hit Thomas first. A fetid reek of fish and bile, almost palpable in the cabin air. Further inspection revealed Kristoff seated on the couch, hunkered over a _once_ empty barrel, his face of a sickly green complexion. Annabeth sat beside her father, the pallor of her cheeks resembling that of stale cabbage, seeming as if she were trying very hard not to open her mouth. Anna stood by her husband, daintily pinching her nose to ward off the smell of vomit. Spotting Elsa, the younger sister practically leapt into her arms, caring not about the sodden state of the Queen's attire.

"Elsa! Thank goodness! The storm was getting so strong... I was getting worried!"

The Queen's embrace tightened around her sister in relief. "I was thinking the same about you! Thank goodness you're safe and well!"

Anna smiled wryly. "Safe, yes. Well, not so much. Kristoff's never liked ships from the start, but I never remembered Annabeth to be so seasick!"  
The girl in question coughed weakly. "Hey, I've never been in a storm this bad before!" Annabeth retorted.

"Don't worry, Captain Edwards has the ship under control," Thomas reassured. "Things should be much calmer from now on."

Annabeth groaned. "Tell my stomach that." The girl put a hand to her mouth as her face suddenly grew a deeper shade of green.

"We may be wet, but at least the men on deck weren't vomiting everywhere," Elsa stated, surveying the room with hesitant eyes. With the smell of sick clogging his sinuses, Thomas couldn't help but agree. Anna slapped her sister on the shoulder.

"It's not their fault that they're seasick…"

Her words were interrupted by another wet retch from Kristoff, followed by a squelching sound as the remaining contents of the man's stomach made their way into the barrel. "Go to Corona, he said," Kristoff deadpanned, a sickly burp following his words. "I would _enjoy_ time abroad, he said..."

"We're not there yet, so you can't say anything!" Anna huffed, arms over her chest.

"Just at least tell me we're _almost_ there," Kristoff groaned. "I can't take this for much longer." The mountain man's stomach groaned with him.

Thomas slowly backed towards the door in trepidation, wide eyes fixed on his uncle's barrel. "OK! I'll go… ask the captain, then, shall I?"

"Hey, don't forget me!" Christopher exclaimed as he scrambled to follow his cousin.

"I shall be your escort!" Sir Gingivere quickly ushered the two cousins out of the room, closing the doors firmly behind them. Soon after, the trio burst out onto the deck of the _Albatross_, reveling in the fresh air, despite the heavy rain.

"I was about to be sick myself!" Christopher admitted, taking deep gulps of the clean ocean winds.

"Well, up here on deck was certainly no picnic, either! I was almost thrown off the ship when a wave hit!" Thomas grumbled.

"By the Lord, I should have been here to protect you!" Sir Gingivere exclaimed, hanging his head. "You could have been lost to the sea because of my negligence! I have failed my duty as your guardian!"

Thomas rubbed the back of his head self-consciously. "Don't worry yourself. I'm certain they needed you far more below decks! Besides, I turned out fine, did I not?"

In spite of his master's words, the knight remained sullen, silently leading the two cousins up the stairs to the quarterdeck. Captain Edwards had not moved from his original position, presiding over the helm as always. Spotting the incoming trio, the captain gestured them over.

"Any of your mates hurt after that ordeal?" the sailor asked, sincere worry in his eyes.

"Our family turned out to be alright, though my uncle and cousin are suffering from severe seasickness from all the tossing and swaying," Thomas explained, Christopher nodding his affirmation beside him.

"That never could be helped, could it?" Captain Edwards shook his head. "Well, I've got some bad news for you lads. The storm might've taken us off course by quite a bit, and it'll probably be another three days, at the least, before we can reach Corona..." The captain paused abruptly, squinting intently out over the churning seas. "Then again, we won't know for sure until we can see the stars again," he murmured, a hand reaching for the spyglass on his belt.

"Bad news for Dad then," Christopher muttered. "We're gonna need a lot more barrels."

Thomas groaned, feigning a retch at his cousin. "Please, don't go into detail!"

A sudden, boisterous laugh had all eyes returning to the captain. The sailor had one eye screwed shut, the other fixated on the lens of his spyglass, an expression of uncontained joy and relief upon his features.

"Would you look at that?" the sailor cried in jubilation. Thomas' eyes wandered the horizon with confusion. What he saw took his breath away. In the distance, the dark skies were pierced by a radiant light, its rays like blades of vibrant gold slicing through the black clouds above. The young prince couldn't stop a laugh of relief from escaping his lips as well.

"Sick of the storm yet, lads?" Captain Edwards retracted his spyglass, giving his company a crooked smile. Christopher nodded vigorously, running back down the quarterdeck for the hatch.

"Dad'll _have_ to come up for this!" his excited voice drifted back.

Thomas stayed at his position beside the captain, the sun to his eyes like water to parched lips. He felt his coattails stirring with a soft wind. A cold wind. This time, it was Thomas who winked to the captain.

"You might want to hold on," he grinned, raising his hands in the air. The aged sailor raised an eyebrow quizzically. Thomas closed his eyes, reaching for ice, the well of wintry power within his soul. There was a crackling sound as frost crept across the deck, an arctic wind suddenly tousling the young prince's hair. Captain Edwards was laughing again.

"I like the way you think, lad! I keep forgetting, you're the Snow Queen's heir!" The captain let go of the wheel, gesturing to Thomas. "Could you hold this for a moment?" When he saw the uncertainty in the young prince's eyes, the captain chuckled. "Just for a moment, mind!"

Moving to the railing at the front of the quarterdeck, Captain Edwards raised his voice."_Down with the sails! Tighten up that top mizzen! We sail for the sun!_" The sailors on deck whirled into action, many cheering their now imminent escape from the storm. Amidst the commotion, Thomas could see the rest of the his family making their ascension onto the deck. Handing the helm back to the captain, the young prince skipped down to meet them, practically glowing with elation.

"We did it, Mother! We beat the storm!"

The Queen's hair had been tamed back into a simple (albeit slightly damp) braid, her dress significantly drier than before. She beamed at her son, a sparkle in her eyes.

"Well, we're not out _yet_," grumbled Kristoff, though even his demeanor was lightened by the sight of the sun. His wife, on the other hand, was already bouncing about.

"Aw, don't be such a downer! I'm sure we'll be out in no time!" Anna turned towards the helm, cupping her hands around her mouth. "_Right Captain Edwards?_"

A laugh drifted down from the quarterdeck. "_Ask your nephew!_"

All eyes were on Thomas now. With a mischievous grin, the young prince rubbed his hands together, flashes of icy magic flaring to life between his fingers.

"Are you ready?"

Annabeth nodded profusely, her mother clapping her hands together gleefully.

"Do it Tom, do the magic!" Christopher was almost jittering with excitement. Elsa simply stood in place, a smile playing about her lips, a faraway look on her features as if she were reminiscing of days past.

Thomas threw his arms out, palms open to the great sails of the ship. Tails of coats and hems of skirts billowed in the sudden wind. Delicate veins of ice crept up the masts, glittering cold and pure in the nearing sun, eliciting gasps of awe from sailors and guards alike. The white canvas stretched taut, wisps of snow drifting high on the breeze, the bow dipping and rising as the _Albatross_ sped across the waves.

Then, with the ocean spray mixing with the last drops of rain from the abating storm above, with the colours of dusk painting the sky with brilliant orange and purple, then the rapture of the high seas returned full force. In that moment, Thomas cared not for the destination. In that moment, he could have ridden the waves forever. Here was freedom. Here was _power_.

And with all certainty, the destination would come.


	13. To Corona

_**Disclaimer: The universe of Frozen and Tangled does not belong to me.**_

**Chapter 13: To Corona**

The fact was, Warner Fitzherbert was not like his father. The King of Corona often complained about the tediousness and boredom of his royal duties, telling tales of high adventure from his days as Flynn Rider. It was quite obvious Eugene yearned for excitement in his life. His son, however, his son did not. Though he certainly loved the stories, that was all they were to Warner: stories. The Crown Prince of Corona considered himself a practical young man, with little fancy for such abstract notions as adventure and true love.

Indeed, such a belief was devastating to nearly every female Warner met; the prince was practically the splitting image of his father, bearing that signature _smoulder_ that had ladies fawning over him at every public occasion. To Eugene's endless surprise, however, his son came to prefer books over human company, and was much more drawn to hard politics than socialization. As the King and Queen danced in the public spotlight, the Crown Prince stayed deep in the palace, poring over written text from dawn until dusk.

Rapunzel was especially worried for her son. Having spent her entire youth in forced isolation, the Queen of Corona knew all too well the consequences of solitude. A thousand rules and political strategies would do nothing for Warner if he did not get out into the world. After all, people were _people_: living, thinking, _feeling_ creatures that were neither the monsters Rapunzel had been lead to believe, nor the machines an inexperienced politician may come to view them as. The truth was, people were complicated. The only way to reach a genuine understanding of them was through interaction.

With Warner's birthday on the horizon, the monarchs seized the opportunity. They sent invitations out to dignitaries from across Europe (even that squirrely Duke from, what was it, Weasel-Town?), and prepared long and extravagant festivities for their son's big day. Warner himself contributed little throughout the planning process, except to select the dishes to be presented at the buffet (chocolate was a _must_), and to attempt to shorten the total length of the party.

"Ma, it's not like this is my _coronation_ we're planning here!"

"Shh! Not a word! This is your _birthday_ and only the best is good enough!" Rapunzel flitted about the long table, pens and papers flying as she hastily scribbled notes, servants positioned off to the side, milling about idly.

"Ma, since it's _my_ birthday ceremony, shouldn't I get a say in it?" Warner asked. His mother seemed not to have heard him. Eugene patted his son on the shoulder.

"Just go with it, Warner. There's no reasoning with a woman when she's trying to plan a party." The King winked. "Trust me, I've had plenty of experience." Eugene turned back to his darling wife, who was trying to fit the tip back onto her evidently broken fountain pen, ink dribbling down her fingers. He groaned. "Blondie, we have _servants_ for a reason…" The King's sentence was cut short by a wet smack as the tongue of the little green chameleon on his shoulder made contact with his right ear. "Aah! Pascal! Even after all these years!?" Pascal phased to a deep demonic red, seeming to grin slyly.

The preparations were made. The Captain of the Guards arranged for lookouts to be posted on all the highest towers of the palace weeks in advance of the actual festivities. All that was left now was to wait. As the weeks became days, Warner found himself joining the guards up at the tower, vying for a glimpse of gleaming sails on the horizon. Though he nervousness was a trait rarely attributed to the Crown Prince of Corona, the imminent arrival of the foreign dignitaries still sent jitters up his spine. What if the representatives saw little potential in him? What if they didn't approve of the future King?

Thus, this afternoon found Warner standing beside the Captain atop the parapets, scrutinizing the orange sea for distant masts. The soldier broke his rigid posture, turning towards the Crown Prince, the light glinting off the man's plumed helmet, making it seem as if the miniature sun inscribed upon the golden metal were truly shining of its own accord. He leveled a hard stare at his charge.

"Your Highness, you've been coming up here day after day. Though getting to know the great outdoors would certainly do you some good, staring at the ocean for hours on end was not exactly what I had in mind." The man raised a thick eyebrow in question.

Warner took a deep breath. "Sir, have you ever had doubts about your… ability? Whether or not you were _good enough_ for your position?" When the Captain folded his muscular arms in front of him, eyes squinted angrily at the prince, Warner hastily raised his hands. "Alright! That came out the wrong way!" The prince sighed. "It's just that, well, these guests to my birthday festival…"

"Well, what about them?" asked the Captain's gruff voice.

"These guests are dignitaries from nations across Europe, sir!" Warner finally burst. "Serious, powerful people! I am the future King of Corona, and what these dignitaries see in me may very well affect our kingdom's standing in the world! What if they deem me _unworthy_ of being a leader? What if they find me hopelessly naive, or clumsy, or…"

"Now, stop right there! Is _that_ what has gotten you in such a fuss?" The Captain bent down to place a firm hand on the shoulder of his charge, face now bearing gentle compassion. "Son, you have no idea how many times I have asked myself those questions. I grew up on the streets, you know that? Raised by an impoverished mother, father long dead or gone. When I was old enough, I trained to be a guard because it was the only decent way to earn enough money to feed my little family. Who knew that one day, I would rise to become the _Captain of the Guards_?"

The soldier patted Warner reassuringly. "Highness, you are _far_ from unworthy. You were _raised_ for this! If I, a lowly urchin, could one day be trusted with the lives of the monarchy, imagine the things you are destined for!" The Captain drew himself up once more, towering a full head over his charge. "Mark my words, Highness, it is not you who should be afraid of them; it is they who should be afraid of you!"

Warner was taken aback by the Captain's words. Was he really underestimating himself by that much? But the Captain had yet to finish.

"If you don't believe me, just look at your father! The infamous Flynn Rider, come to renounce his ways, and by marrying the Crown Princess to boot!" The soldier chuckled heartily. "If fact, that was how I got my promotion to Captain in the first place. The previous Captain had resigned when the thief he swore to bring to justice became his King!" The Captain leaned in conspiratorially. "Though rumor has it that Maximus took over that man's post for a while, before I did," he whispered.

That had the Crown Prince laughing, in spite of everything. The Captain thumped his charge on the back, a grin lightening the man's usually heavy demeanor.

"There's the young prince I know! When it comes down to it, Highness, it's _your_ birthday party. Don't be nervous, don't worry! Just enjoy it!"

Warner smiled gratefully up at the soldier. "I'll try my best, sir."

The Captain smiled back. "Alek. Just Alek is fine."

The two turned their eyes back out over the great waters, the sea going from orange to red as the sun neared the horizon. A horizon that was penetrated by the distinct white squares of faraway sails.

Warner squinted at the approaching ship blearily, then did a double take, whirling to Alek in an anxious blur. "A ship! There is a ship inbound!"

"Woah there, hold your horses!" The Captain's heavy hand stopped the prince's nervous frenzy, holding Warner firmy to the ground. With a reproachful look, Alek took the small spyglass from his belt, squinting through at the nearing sails. The ship itself was of an unremarkable size, an aged brigantine of two masts, powering steadily through the waves. A dark insignia was emblazoned upon the fading white canvas: an eagle digging its talons into the back of a great serpent, who was in turn coiling around its adversary.

Warner jostled Alek, vying for a glimpse of the inbound vessel. "Well, who is it? Which kingdom?"

The soldier's expression turned sour. "That ship comes from no _kingdom_, Highness. It hails from the Duchy of Weselton."

The Kingdom of Corona gleamed in the sunlight of its namesake. The palace, the village, the streams upon the hills all shone with the glittering gold of dusk, seemingly imbued with a haze of content languor. From the shops came forth the delicious aromas of roasting meats and freshly baked bread, drifting on the warm summer wind, mixing with the lively chatter of the town. Such was the picture-perfect panorama visible from the prow of the _Swiftwater_ as it cruised slowly into port, sails billowing grandly in the last of the onshore breeze.

Alas, such magnificent beauty was largely lost upon the Duke of Weselton. The old noble's greedy, bespectacled eyes saw only the palace, and the treasury he knew was within. Already, schemes were whirring to life within the Duke's mind. First, he would gain the friendship of the monarchy, learning their true reasons behind sustaining trade with Weselton in the process. The Duke suspected he held a certain commodity that was precious to Corona, and finding it would give him an edge that would be invaluable for creating permanently binding, "mutually beneficial" agreements between Weselton and Corona.

"Your Grace, we have made port."

The annoyingly familiar voice of Captain Moore brought the Duke back to the present. Giving the man a withering glare, the Duke drew himself up to his full height, smoothing back his toupee with both hands. _Wouldn't want history to repeat itself._

"Have the men lower the gangplank, then!"

Without another word, the Duke turned on his heel, strutting stiffly to centre deck. "Guards, to me!" he commanded, his voice of a higher pitch than he would have liked.

Immediately, there came the sound of many boots on deck as the Ducal Guard took up position around their charge. Straightening himself even more, the Duke of Weselton stepped onto the gangplank, his guards a sea of dark crimson as they marched behind him in unison.

With the clop of hooves on pavement, a golden rider atop a great white steed rode gallantly out onto the harbour, followed by nearly a score of mounted guards in the same garb. The faces of a dozen radiant suns glared fiercely from the plated armour of the men, the symbol of the Royal Guard of Corona. The Duke's receiving party had arrived.

"Welcome and salutations from the Land of the Sun! Am I correct in my assumption that you are His Grace, the Duke of Weselton?" The leading guard extended a hand of welcome. The Duke took it carefully, giving a slight shake before quickly removing his hand from the man's grasp.

"Your presumptions are quite correct. I am indeed the Duke of Weselton, and these men behind me are my Ducal Guard." The Duke gave a little pirouette, ending off with a flourishing bow. There was a quiet sliding sound, followed by poorly-concealed laughter from many of the Royal Guard. The Duke stood erect once more, silently cursing as his toupee fell back into place with an ungainly flop. Clearing his throat, he continued with as much dignity as he could muster.

"Ahem! We come to your Kingdom of Corona in peaceful attendance of His Highness the Crown Prince Warner Fitzherbert's birthday ceremonies. I apologize for our rather early arrival, but we did not know what the sea would throw at us during our travels." The men of the receiving party had already recomposed themselves, faces solemn once more. The lead guard nodded.

"Worry not, Your Grace! I'm sure we can fit you and your men somewhere within the palace grounds. Come! I'm sure you are quite tired and famished from your long journey." With that, the leader's horse fixed its surprisingly intelligent stare upon the Duke, nostrils flaring as if in warning, before turning and racing its rider back towards the distant palace.

The Duke couldn't help but notice how quickly the rest of the Royal Guards surrounded him and his men, flanking them with expressionless faces and military precision. The entourage made their way through the streets, steadily moving for the palace. All the while, inferences and plans were flitting through the Duke's mind like agitated wasps._ I seem to be the first guest to arrive._ _The King and Queen obviously have little trust in me, considering the number of guards they sent. However, though the other guests should be arriving soon, at the moment I am the only one._

_An opportunity._

"Land ho!"

The excited cry from the crow's nest had the entirety of the royal family racing to the prow, scrutinizing the horizon for a glimpse of their destination. The listing sea rolled unbroken into the distance, meeting seamlessly with the cloudless sky above, revealing not a speck of green amidst the ocean blue. Nevertheless, Thomas squinted out as far as his eyes could reach. There! He could just make out a faint shimmer upon the blurry horizon, a triangular shape slowly detaching itself from the waves below...

A wayward gust of wind momentarily redirected the young prince's attention. Turning, Thomas witnessed the exact moment his mother's long braid flew into contact with his aunt's freckled face. Anna frantically tried to blow the hair away from her eyes, eventually settling for taking the offending braid and simply throwing it back at Elsa. Unfortunately, the wind blew on, leading to the younger sister being slapped a second time, to the utter amusement of the onlookers.

"Hey!" Anna's exclamation uncorked the bottle of mirth, gaffaws erupting from all around.

"Well, I was about to pull my hair up in a bun this morning, but you insisted for me to keep it this way," Elsa giggled. "You truly have no one to blame but yourself!" At this, Anna's lower lip jutted out in a pout unbecoming of her age.

"You always told me never to pout, Mother!" Annabeth laughed. "You said it's _unflattering_ of a proper lady!"

Suddenly, the wind changed direction, throwing Anna's double braids in _Elsa's_ direction. The younger sister's look of triumph died down, however, when she realized her hair was barely long enough to reach the Queen's nose.

"You need a good wash when we reach port, sister! Your hair smells like seaweed!"

The hearty, musical laughter of royals carried upon the ocean breeze, bringing a warm tone of joy to the deck of the _Albatross_. In the blissful atmosphere, a knot unwound itself in Thomas' heart; a knot he had not known existed. The high seas were a place of rapture and adventure,yes , but it was a place fraught with terrible danger. Now that his destination was in sight, a great relief washed over the young prince, and his face broke into a jubilant smile.

"Ah, I'm so glad to finally be _making_ port," Christopher sighed. "That storm really had me worried!"

At that, Elsa's expression grew somber, dark thoughts of what might have been evidently flashing behind her eyes. Anna placed a soft hand on her sister's, unfazed by its temperature. "We made it, Elsa. We beat the storm, together. Cheer up! We can't have the people of Corona seeing your frowny face."

That had the Queen chuckling through her tears. "We can't have the people of Corona seeing you in your grimy state either, Anna. Right now you look more like a pirate than a princess!"

"Well, you're not exactly presentable either, sister. Speak for yourself!" Anna huffed, her nose held high.

With a cocked eyebrow, Elsa raised her arms in a graceful sweeping motion. Vibrant blue tendrils of magic flowed across her body, transforming the teal fabric of her clothes into a long glittering dress of ice. Below the Queen's feet, fractal patterns grew into an enormous snowflake, turning the entire forecastle into an ice rink as the deck glazed over. When she finally lowered her hands, Elsa was greeted with an awed silence. Indeed, she had become quite the sight to behold. There she stood, tall and regal, at the centre of a great snowflake, wearing a beautiful icy dress of her own creation, bathed in morning light as if even the sun were transfixed by her. At that moment, she was beyond definition. She was ethereal. She was the Snow Queen.

She also had just utterly trumped her sister.

The still air was broken by Kristoff's panicked shout. His sea legs wobbly and unreliable even after a good two weeks at sea, the mountain man lost his footing upon the slippery ice, falling on his rump in an undignified heap. Ever the gentleman, Sir Gingivere quickly moved to Kristoff's side, helping the man back to his feet with strong hands. Elsa gasped, a hand to her mouth to staunch her laughter.

"Oh! Kristoff!" With a slight wave, the ice sublimated away from underneath everyone's feet. The Queen turned back to her family, a sheepish and slightly apologetic smile upon her lips. "Sorry. Spur of the moment, and I let it go…"

That had Anna laughing anew. "Oh, Elsa! I'm sure Tom has 'let it go' a _lot_ more than you this trip! It was about time, anyway!"

Thomas rubbed the back of his head self-consciously. "Hey, Chris wanted me to 'do the magic'."

The older cousin laughed. "That I did!"

With that, the royal family gazed back out towards the nearing kingdom in the distance.

It was then that Thomas felt a cold, familiar hand grip his shoulder. He looked up to see Sir Gingivere standing beside him, head bowed as if in apology. In regret and self-hatred the knight had wallowed, ever since his alleged failure to protect his master from the wrath of the storm. Thomas grasped his creation's hand in his own.

"Hey. What happened out there wasn't your fault. I'm still here, alive and well, am I not? You have not failed me as a guardian."

Sir Gingivere shook his head slowly, beginning to pull away from his master and charge. However, Thomas wasn't about to let the good knight punish himself again. "Sir Gingivere, look at me." When his words failed to yield the desired effect, the young prince threw a bolt of magic at the knight's feet, a jagged barrier of ice stopping Sir Gingivere in his tracks.

"_Look at me!_ You are so much more than just my creation now! You've become a part of the family. You've become my _mentor_ in many ways!" Thomas looked straight at Sir Gingivere, into the void where he knew the knight's eyes would have been, hands firmly gripping his friend's icy shoulders. "But, most of all, you have become a dear friend. You did not fail me, Sir Gingivere. There is no way that you could _ever_ fail me. Understood?"

The knight stood unmoving under his master's grasp, as if he were naught but a statue of ice. After an age, the expressionless helmet finally gave the faintest of tilts.

"If you so insist, Master Thomas."

Thomas exhaled slowly, the tension draining from his body as he did so. The wall behind Sir Gingivere faded away in a breath of mist. The young prince held out his hand to the knight. "To Corona, Sir Gingivere?"

A pause. There was the clinking of icy armour plates sliding past one another as Sir Gingivere moved his arm. There was the cool feel of hard ice on Thomas' skin as the knight took the young prince's hand. A pact of courage. Sir Gingivere was "the Lionhearted" once more.

"To Corona, Master Thomas."

When the second ship crested the horizon, Warner was at the window of his room. Still in his bedclothes, the Crown Prince scrambled through his drawers for the spyglass he had stored there in case of such an event. Strewing baubles and papers about the room in his haste, Warner returned to his window, his eye already pressed to the lens of his spyglass.

This ship was larger, a galleon with three great square-rigged masts. The symbol upon the canvas was considerably simpler than the last: a golden, three-petaled flower, seeming to glow in the light of dawn. _The Crocus of Arendelle!_ Recognition dawned on Warner, even as the rest of his knowledge about the faraway kingdom surfaced in his mind. _The royalty of Arendelle are cousins_, the prince remembered. _Their Crown Prince is my… second cousin, was it?_ _And what of those stories, the Eternal Winter, the Frozen Heart, the Snow Queen? Myths, surely._

However, what Warner observed next had his jaw hanging slack, swinging like a pendulum beneath his dumbfounded face. Even through the blurry lens of his spyglass, the prince could clearly see a massive, glittering snowflake appear on the front deck of the inbound ship. Warner jerked back from the window, rubbing his eyes profusely. What had he just seen? When he squinted back through the spyglass, the snowflake was already fading away from the deck, soon gone altogether. Had he imagined it?

Retracting the spyglass, the Crown Prince made for his wardrobe. One thing was certain. The Snow Queen had come.


	14. Meetings and Reunions

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing of Tangled and Frozen. Not even their DVDs. It's sad, really.**_

* * *

**Chapter 14: Meetings and Reunions**

The land of Corona loomed high over the _Albatross_, shining brightly in the white morning sun. The shadows of the masts grew gradually shorter as the galleon approached port, its wake the only disturbance in the calm, turquoise waters of the nearing harbour. Thomas leaned over the gunwale, taking in the new scenery with wide eyes.

This truly was the Land of the Sun! The light shone with so much more _fervour_ here, the very air seeming thick and palpable, ablaze in the summer heat. There was an aura to this kingdom, something alight in the atmosphere, something that wasn't present in his homeland of Arendelle. Thomas couldn't put his finger on it, but it was there; in the village houses, in the soaring palace parapets, in the very water beneath the bow. Something that lifted his spirits, singing of cheer and prosperity with many voices.

There was the sound of footsteps on deck as Christopher appeared by Thomas' side, leaning forward with his elbows up on the railing. The young prince smiled crookedly at his cousin.

"Where's Mother gone?" he asked.

Christopher shrugged. "With _my_ mother, I'll bet. They've got to get the guards sorted, and all that."

Thomas laughed. "Since when did Aunt Anna concern herself with duties like that?"

His cousin laughed as well. "Well, the fact of the matter is, I think my dear Mum just can't be bested _your_ mother again!"

Thomas shook his head, chuckling. There was a moment of silence between the two princes as they gazed out at their rapidly approaching destination. Suddenly, movement on the shore caught Thomas' attention. Even from his vantage at the prow, the young prince could espy an entourage of men in golden armour slowly making their way through the steep village streets, moving steadily down towards the harbour. Amidst the guards walked three figures, their white attire a stark contrast to the gold of the men around them. Two were clad in pristine suits with golden trim; the other, evidently a woman, wearing a flowing pearl dress that sparkled in the sun. The light glinted off of something else as well, a shape imbedded in the lady's short hair. A tiara.

"Look, it's the Queen!" Christopher's excited shout had Annabeth and Sir Gingivere rushing over as well.

"What, the Queen? Where!" Annabeth ran to the railing, scouring the harbour with searching eyes.

"Right there!" The younger brother pointed excitedly to the entourage moving out from the village.

Sir Gingivere seemed quite flustered at the sight. "Are we to be in the presence of the Coronan royalty? Oh, dear me! I am quite underdressed!"

Thomas refrained from rolling his eyes at the knight. "Sir Gingivere, you are a _suit of armour_. You have no clothes to change into! Besides, I doubt anything will make much of a difference. You are going to be cause for great… surprise, let's put it that way, no matter what you do. At the end of the day, you're still a walking, talking man of ice, and unless the people of Corona are used to things like that, just be prepared for a lot of screaming."

The knight paused, then shrugged. A halfhearted laugh emanated from his helmet. "I am sad to say, I have grown used to the screams of those who behold me."

Mentally slapping himself, the young prince turned slowly back to the knight, apology written upon his features. "Alright, I didn't mean it like _that_…"

"What else could be the outcome? You are completely correct. There _will_ be screaming. Someone may even fall off the pier." Suddenly, the knight began chuckling heartily. "But such is my existence. Such is how it always will be! Oh, Master Thomas, you need not apologize on my behalf!"

Thomas grinned in relief. Olaf was simply too carefree to be affected by people's initial fear of him, but the young prince knew how deep such experiences had cut into Sir Gingivere. Looking the knight up and down, a mischievous glint returned to the young prince's eye. "Since screaming rather hurts my ears, why not strike the people dumb with awe instead?" Sir Gingivere tilted his head in question. Thomas simply winked.

Pressing his hand to the knight's chest, the young prince tuned in to his elemental power. He could _feel_ every piece of armour, every line and contour, as surely as he felt his own limbs. With that feeling, with that control, Thomas set to work. He was not the artist his mother was, but when one practically embodied winter, there are certain aspects that became almost second nature.

Thus, patterns of frost appeared upon the translucent surfaces of the knight's armour in delicate swirls, twisting across Sir Gingivere's body like wintry vines with snowflakes in place of grapes. At the knight's hip grew a scabbard, and within it Thomas' infamous sword, gleaming cold and deadly in the summer sun. Upon Sir Gingivere's back, a sheet of ice shaped itself into a shield. With a final flourish from the young prince, the crocus of Arendelle etched itself upon the knight's breastplate.

Alas, all was for naught if Thomas could not make the ice permanent. Closing his eyes, the young prince reached deep within for the very source of his powers. Though he had seen his mother perform such magic on several occasions, he himself had never attempted it before. Perspiration beading on his forehead, he concentrated on channelling the magic through his fingers, willing a piece of the ice within to transfer into the knight. There was a flash, accompanied by an abrupt drop in temperature. When Thomas finally removed his hand, the knight stayed frozen, not a bead of meltwater forming upon the ice even in the blazing summer sun.

"Wow…" Christopher and Annabeth breathed in unison, staring at the Sir Gingivere's new armour in awe. The knight looked himself over tentatively, his embarrassment evident even given his lack of facial expression.

"Well, I seem to have achieved the desired effect!" Thomas laughed weakly, sagging with fatigue. "You two couldn't have looked more awestruck if I'd made Sir Gingivere fly!"

"Can you do that?" Annabeth asked excitedly. Thomas raised an eyebrow.

"Well, let's see, I control _ice_. Anna, my dear sister, tell me, have you ever seen _ice_ in any way, shape, or form _fly_ before?" the young prince deadpanned.

"Hey, anything is possible with magic…" Christopher piped.

"When you actually _have_ magic, you quickly realize that is not the case," Thomas stated.

_Thud. Clomp. Clomp. Clomp. Clomp._

The cousins turned to see the Queen and Princess Anna walking up the deck, Kristoff at their side, a small army of Royal Guards in tow. Elsa still wore her dress of ice, apparently of the same mindset as her son. Let them see the Snow Queen in all her glory. She would conceal no more.

From the helm came the command of the captain. "_Hoist the sails! Steady as she goes…_"

"Are we ready?" Elsa looked everyone over, giving a double take when her eyes finally settled upon Sir Gingivere. "Wait, Thomas, did you do this?"

The young prince groaned tiredly. "Making the ice last is a lot more tiring than you let on, Mother!"

The Queen made straight for the frozen knight, unsheathing Thomas' sword in one swift, angry motion. "And what's this! A sword? Thomas we talked about this!"

The young prince held up his hands. "I know, I know! It's purely for decoration..."

But before the words had even left his lips, Sir Gingivere had already kneeled at Elsa's feet. "Master Thomas is my friend and my charge, and I shall protect him with my very existence. Your Majesty, I swear, on my honour, that I shall never use that blade unless in times of dire need." At this, the knight stared straight into the Snow Queen's eyes. "But, know this. For any who may attempt to harm my master should fear my bitter vengeance! On this, I vow!"

The Queen blinked. Thomas stood in place, taken aback by Sir Gingivere's words, waiting for his mother's reply with baited breath. Slowly, oh so slowly, Elsa took a firm grip of the sword, directing the blade downwards in an icy cross.

"Such vows are not to be made lightly, Sir Gingivere. Do you swear, on oath, to protect my son? To put his life before your own?"

"Yes, Majesty." There was no hesitation.

"Then I grant you possession of this blade. May you use it well." Elsa turned the sword to hold its hilt out to Sir Gingivere. Ceremoniously, she lowered the blade into the knight's outstretched hands. With startling precision, the knight sheathed his sword, the ice ringing as it slid into the scabbard.

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

Turning to her son, Elsa fixed Thomas with a reprimanding look. "No more weapons, understood?"

The young prince nodded, hands clasped behind his back, what he hoped to be an innocent smile on his face.

"Um, Elsa…" Anna was trying to get her sister's attention, a finger pointing out past the forecastle.

"What?"

"We're…" Anna's sentence was cut short by Captain Edwards' shout.

"_Release the anchors!_"

The clicking of the falling chains was accompanied by a sudden lurch as the _Albatross_ slowed to a halt.

"...here!" the younger sister finished lately.

* * *

As Warner walked to the harbour, all he could think about was how stuffy his damned suit was. He had begged his parents to let him wear a simple summer tunic, but alas the monarchs would have none of it. He was the Crown Prince, after all, and so had to look his best. Even if looking his best meant slowly being broiled alive in the blazing summer heat.

The cobbled street beneath his feet gave way to the smoother stone slabs of the port. Drifting across the clear waters, growing steadily closer was the shape of the Arendellian vessel, its sails already hoisted up. Warner could see guards in uniform standing in formation upon the deck of the ship, as well as the shapes of two older women and several younger people at the forecastle.

_The royal family?_

Prince Warner's thoughts returned to the legends he'd heard of Arendelle. If the Queen of Arendelle truly did have ice powers, she wasn't using them, at least in any way that he could see. Then again, there were always those who feared magic, so perhaps the Queen didn't want to attract unwanted attention. Or perhaps she simply hadn't come?

There was a soft thud as the hull of the ship grazed the side of the port. Up close, Warner could make out the name of the great vessel inscribed on the lacquered wood.

"Ah, the _Albatross_," his mother murmured. "I remember seeing that ship moored in the harbour when we traveled to Arendelle all those years ago."

"I wonder if that Kristoff character has come to visit," his father mused. "He got really well with Maximus last time. Better than me, even!"

"That may be because Maximus spent half his life chasing after you, dear," Rapunzel giggled.

"Hey, I don't blame him. Even horses can't resist my _smoulder_." Eugene wagged his eyebrows, receiving a playful slap from his wife.

The King of Corona proceeded to face his entourage. "Well, who's going to raise the gangplank, fellas?" The guards took it as a command, and rushed to complete the order. With the help of the deckhands aboard the ship, the men tied down the thick mooring ropes, securing a massive wooden staircase to the side of the hull.

The first person to step off the _Albatross_ was a man in a grey uniform embroidered with the crest of Arendelle, a matching shako atop his head; a member of the Royal Guard. Three other identically dressed guards stepped down the gangplank in quick succession, standing stiffly to attention at the foot of the staircase.

Then, a woman appeared above the railing, practically bouncing down the wooden stairs with a spirit that didn't quite match her age. Her strawberry-blonde hair was in double braids, flying behind her shoulders as she ran straight for the Queen of Corona.

"Presenting Her Royal Highness, Princess..."

The Arendellian guard never had a chance to finish his proclamation as the princess in question collided into Rapunzel in a tight embrace.

"And hello to you, too, Anna!" the Queen of Corona laughed. "How's my cousin been all these years?"

"Oh, it's been _great!_ My two kids are all grown up now, and Elsa's had a son as well!"

"Yes, we'd heard. Or rather, read, from the piles of letters you keep sending us," Eugene commented.

"Presenting His Highness, Kristoff Bjorgman of Arendelle!"

A large, burly man descended from the ship, a sheepish, slightly shy smile on his face. "I didn't realize my official title was so long…"

"And that's without the "Ice Master and Deliverer" bit," Anna chimed.

"Don't remind me," groaned Kristoff.

"Bjorgman!" The King held his hand out to the ice harvester. "It's been a while!"

Kristoff took the hand with a firm grip of his own. "Certainly has!"

"Presenting Her Royal Highness, Princess Annabeth Bjorgman of Arendelle!"

This was evidently the daughter of Princess Anna and Kristoff. The girl's hair matched her mother's, and she seemed of a similar nature, shifting from foot to foot under the gaze of the Coronans.

"Um, hi!" Annabeth gave her audience a tentative wave.

"Wow, has it really been that long?" Rapunzel exclaimed. "When we last saw you, you were this adorable thing that I could hold in one arm! Now look at you! A beautiful young lady if I've ever seen one!"

Annabeth blushed slightly at the compliments.

"Presenting His Royal Highness, Prince Christopher Bjorgman of Arendelle!"

Anna's second child seemed to be bolder, marching down the steps with confidence. He gave a slight bow to the Coronans.

"Hello!"

"You too? Why, you were barely _this_ big…" Rapunzel's excited voice was cut off by her husband.

"Blondie, I think you may be creeping the kids out..." Eugene shrank slightly under his wife's scolding glare. "...just a little?" he finished timidly.

"Presenting Her Majesty the Queen, Elsa of Arendelle!"  
At this, Warner perked up. So the Queen _had_ come. When she finally came down from the ship, there was no mistaking who Elsa was. She walked with a regality testament to her years in the public eye, seeming to glide down the staircase, arms clasped before her, head held high and straight. Her ice blue gaze was resolute and unwavering.

But that was not what caught Warner's attention. The prince was all too captivated by the dress the queen wore. It was a deep, clear blue, iridescent in the morning light. The fabric seemed to be comprised of fine crystals, glittering as they caught the rays of the sun. A long train trailed from the bodice, one embellished with patterns of snow and frost. Coupled with the queen's stark platinum hair, her pale white skin, and the inexplicably _cool_ air about her, and Warner's curiosity sparked anew. Could Elsa truly wield the power of winter?

The Queen of Arendelle greeted the Coronans with a deep, elaborate courtesy. However, Rapunzel would have none of the formality. With a knowing nod from Anna, the Queen of Corona took a flying leap at Elsa, almost knocking the other queen over with a fierce hug.

"You came!" Rapunzel exclaimed gleefully.

"I made you a promise, didn't I?" Elsa smiled.

"Ooh, where's the little Crown Prince?"

"Well, Thomas isn't so _little_ any more…"

"Presenting His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Thomas of Arendelle!"

"Here he comes!" Anna laughed. But there was no movement from the deck of the _Albatross_.

"_Thomas?_" Elsa called.

A platinum-blonde head appeared above the railing of the ship, peering out at the assembled crowd through slate-grey eyes. _So this is the Crown Prince of Arendelle_, Warner thought. The boy did have a striking resemblance to his mother, even apart from his startling platinum hair. Standing there in a navy blue suit, Thomas certainly looked the part of a heir to the throne, stiff and regal. But why wasn't he coming down?

"C'mon Thomas, don't be shy!" Eugene teased.

"Oh, it's not me I'm afraid for…" Thomas replied. The boy slowly began his descent from the ship, seeming more uneasy with every step. He finally made it down to the shore, bowing deeply to the Coronans.

"Pleased to finally meet you all! Before we go any further, I would like to ask a question. You've all met Olaf before, right?"

"Oh, did Olaf come, too?" Rapunzel answered excitedly.

Thomas seemed to wince slightly. "Actually, no. But you _have_ met him, right?"

"Who's Olaf?" The instant the words left his mouth, Warner regretted them. Now everyone was staring at him.

"Ah, how could I forget to introduce my own son?" Eugene gestured grandly towards Warner. "Ahem! Presenting His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Warner Fitzherbert of Corona!"

"Eugene! You can't announce your own son! We have people for that!"

"Dearest Rapunzel, I am the King and can do what I want. Now, where were we again?"

"Oh, right, Olaf! Warner, dear, haven't we told you stories about him?" Rapunzel looked to her son in question.

"Wait… is this Olaf the Snowman we're talking about here!?" Warner asked incredulously. "But Mother, he's a fairy tale! A bedtime story for infants! Are you telling me Olaf is real?"

"Oh, he's real all right!" Christopher quipped. "And he certainly loves his warm hugs!"

Warner's head was spinning. "So, the stories are all true, then?" Before he could stop himself, he turned excitedly to Queen Elsa. "You really are the Snow Queen? You truly have ice powers?"

Elsa gave a tinkling laugh. "Well, Warner, what do you think my dress is made out of? I thought it would have been obvious enough."

"That's all _ice?_" The Crown Prince of Corona stared, slack-jawed.

The clearing throat of the _other_ crown prince shook Warner back to the present.

"So, is it safe to say that none of you are going to run around in circles screaming your heads off if I, hypothetically, showed you a live… snowman?" Thomas asked.

"These guards are trained to the highest level of bravery and integrity. There will be no screaming, I assure you," Eugene stated solemnly.

Thomas nodded, seemingly satisfied. The boy turned back in the direction of the _Albatross_. "Sir Gingivere! You can come down now!"

There was the ominous thudding of heavy footsteps, slowly increasing in volume as the one to whom the feet belonged to moved closer to the railing of the ship. A glimmering blue head crested the gunwale; the visored helmet of a knight, made completely of ice. Only, there was no _face_ behind that visor…

"_AAAAAAAHHHHH!_"

One of the Coronan guards broke rank and ran frantically in the other direction, arms pinwheeling in his panic. Unfortunately for him, that particular section of dock was but a slim protrusion into the bay, and the man tripped from the pier and flew into headfirst into the sea with a mighty splash. The other guards quickly ran to fish their fellow man from the water. The King of Corona blinked.

"Well! It seems I spoke too soon!"

"That's no… bloody… snowman! That's... a_ monster!_" shouted the rescued guard, coughing up seawater all the while, fear showing clearly in his eyes as he was pulled back onto the dock. Others in the ranks of guards began to murmur their assent to their comrade's statement. Thomas winced noticeably this time, and Eugene's palm made for his face.

Suddenly, a new voice cut through the tense atmosphere. "Well, excuse me! I'll have you know that I am a distinguished gentleman of knightly stature!" A hushed silence fell over the assembled crowd as the icy suit of armour stepped off the ship, its every step a low clank on the wooden steps of the gangplank.

"It speaks?" choked out the first guard. One could almost hear Thomas' eyes roll.

With a final, decisive thud, the knight of ice set foot upon the dock. There it stood for a moment, presumably surveying its audience. Warner couldn't help but shiver at the sight of the expressionless sentinel. How was that Thomas so at ease around the living statue? With no no eyes, no face, you would never know it was watching you, never know it was even _alive_ until it was upon you…

But to Warner's endless surprise, the suit of armour then initiated a deep, sweeping bow. That voice came again, that pleasant, gentlemanly sound that suddenly made the frozen figure seem a whole lot less menacing.

"Your Majesties, Your Highnesses, I do not believe we have been properly introduced. I am Sir Gingivere the Lionhearted, Guardian of His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Thomas, and servant of Her Majesty, Queen Elsa." The knight straightened himself once more, doffing an imaginary hat to the Coronans. "How do you do?"

One would not have been surprised to hear crickets chirping in the silence that followed.

Queen Rapunzel was the first to recover. "Welcome to Corona, Sir Gingivere!" she replied cheerily. "I'm very sorry about our… bad reception, but we do hope you enjoy your stay!"

At this, Rapunzel glared at the still-sodden guard pointedly. One of the man's comrades nudged him on the shoulder with reproach. The guard glanced to Sir Gingivere nervously.

"Ahem! 'Pologies for my screaming, sir." He swallowed audibly. "I was just… frightened, is all."

"All is forgiven, good man. It was nothing I had not experienced before," said the knight of ice.

To everyone's surprise, Thomas slowly began to chuckle. "What did you say, Sir Gingivere? 'Someone may even fall off the pier'?" The boy's laughs became uncontrollable gaffaws. "Oh, how right you were!" After a few moments, Christopher and Annabeth began laughing as well, the light and carefree sound like balm to everyone's frayed nerves.

Down the gangplank marched the rest of the Arendellian Royal Guard, their deep grey uniforms contrasting with the bright gold of their Coronan counterparts.

"Is that everyone?" Rapunzel asked. Anna nodded.

"Yep! _Unless Captain Edwards wants to join us!_" The strawberry-haired woman directed the second statement in the direction of the helm of the _Albatross_.

"_I've got quite enough to do here, but thanks for the offer!_" came the faraway reply.

Anna turned back to her cousin. "Well! That's that, then!"

The King of Corona formally extended a hand to the Queen of Arendelle. "Your Majesty, I welcome you and your family to our beautiful kingdom." Turning to the rest of the Arendellians, Eugene grinned. "Welcome to Corona, everybody!"


	15. Time Abroad

_**Disclaimer: My puny hands are far insufficient for holding ownership of either Frozen or Tangled**_

* * *

**Chapter 15: Time Abroad**

The Duke of Weselton was not happy. Three days he had sat in his allotted room in the palace of Corona, mouldering in the sweltering heat of high summer. Three days he had been shadowed wherever he went by the Coronan Royal Guard, the men seeming to observe his every move with scrutinous suspicion. Three days, and he was still no closer to gaining an audience with the Coronan monarchs than when he had first set foot upon the dock.

_One key piece on the board is almost within my grasp, though._ The one good that could change his fate; the mysterious commodity to which he owed his entire trade relationship with Corona. The Duke leaned back in his chair, scratching his moustache in thought. Now that he rationalized, there was only one thing it _could_ be. Not lumber; the Kingdom of Corona was bordered by deep forest. Not tea; there were so many other nations that shipped it. No, it could only be coal.

The Duchy of Weselton sat atop one of the continent's largest underground stores of the black fuel. Indeed, the Duke's predecessors had bought the land for the sole purpose of harvesting the coal that lay beneath. Such ready access to fuel had been Weselton's saving grace in the harsh winter a decade ago. Now, it could be the key to the nation's return to power.

_I just need a way to turn this knowledge to my advantage…_

The Duke's musings were cut short by an insistent knocking on the door of his room.

"Who is it!" he yelled, scowling in annoyance.

"It's Philipp, Your Grace." The Ducal Guard's gruff voice came muffled by the wood of the door.

"You had better have a good reason for disturbing me!" the Duke growled.

"The royal family of Arendelle has made port!"

"_What?!_" The Duke sprang to the door, yanking the guard into his room and swiftly slamming the door shut again. After making certain they were not being overheard, he grabbed hold of the front of the man's uniform, shaking him back and forth.

"Are you absolutely certain?" the noble hissed. "Speak up!"

"The ship… flies the crocus… Your Grace!" the guard choked out in between shakes. The Duke abruptly let go, sending Philipp toppling to the ground in a flustered heap.

Paying the man little heed, the Duke began to pace the floor in frustration. How could he have forgotten! Those accursed Arendellians would certainly come to their own cousin's birthday ceremony! What if the wretched sorceress herself was here? He would have no chance at all with gaining a foothold on Corona's politics with Queen Elsa's influence added to the mix. Thoughts of coal cast aside for the moment, the Duke rounded furiously back to his guard.

"Gather my men! I want them all here in this very room within a quarter hour!" When Philipp just stared back blankly, the Duke practically shoved the man out the door with a boot. "Was that not clear enough, dummkopf?! Go, go!"

Slamming the door with even more force with before, the Duke collapsed back into his chair, running a hand through his meagre grey hair. _Curse my old age! Curse my luck! Above all else, curse the seas for not ridding me of the Snow Queen once and for all!_

* * *

"...and after _years _and _years_ of asking… I finally said yes!"

"Eugene!"

"Alright! In reality, _I_ asked her."

"And we're living happily ever after!"

The King and Queen of Corona leaned toward each other romantically, their lips on the verge of contact when, _smack!_

"Ow! _Pascal!_ Geez!" Eugene rubbed his ear sorely.

"Aww! That was so sweet!" Anna clasped her hands together, her head tilted to one side, wide eyes shining with tears.

Thomas couldn't help but give a little sniff as well, though for a whole other reason. He felt saddened by the King's tale, despite its happy ending. Would those with magic always be cursed with lives of such pain and strife? He thought of Mother Gothel, of Prince Hans, of the Duke of Weselton; people who had acted of selfish greed and fear, each corrupted in their own way by the presence of magic.

The young prince sighed. Alas, he was among the ranks of those imbued with magical power. What dark fate was in store for him?

Christopher raised a finger. "Wait, wait. You're telling me that you healed Eugene with your _tears? _Does that mean you still have magic?"

Rapunzel shook her head. "Honestly, Christopher, I don't know. The magic that I had was in my healing hair, and that hasn't grown in over twenty years!"

"I only wish my powers were so benign," Elsa muttered.

"Hey, don't get me wrong, but you're pretty lucky to have magic at all!" Eugene commented. The Snow Queen gave a bitter smile.

"I thank you for saying so but, believe me, _lucky_ is the last word I would use to describe my cu..." A sharp look of reminder from Anna had her sister rephrasing. "...magic."

Kristoff cleared his throat. "Um, Your Majesty…"

"Please, just Rapunzel."

"...Rapunzel, does your son have any magic powers?"

"Not that we've seen." The Queen of Corona reached over to ruffle her son's hair. "Though he has an unnatural love for books and studying!" Rapunzel teased.

"Mother!" Warner complained.

"That's like you when you were his age, Elsa! He may have magic yet!" Anna laughed.

"Oh, that reminds me!" Eugene interjected. "We've yet to give you a proper tour of the palace! Warner knows the place like the back of his hand…"

"Sure do!" the prince piped.

"...so he'll have no problem showing you folks around!"

The King looked to his son, who nodded in affirmation.

"Alright, right this way then!" Warner walked out into the hall, motioning for the Arendellians to follow.

"You're not coming?" Anna asked Rapunzel.

"The rest of the party guests should be arriving any moment now. We've got to be here to welcome them," the Queen of Corona smiled apologetically. "Besides, I'm sure Pascal and Warner will be fabulous tour guides!"

The little green chameleon leapt from Eugene's shoulder onto Kristoff's, waving its little claws around and jabbering unintelligibly in the mountain man's ear.

"Uh huh… oh, really? That's great!" Kristoff turned to the rest of his family. "Come on, guys! Pascal says there's going to be chocolate at the end!"

"Count me in!" whooped Anna.

"Wow, Dad can talk to chameleons, too?" Annabeth remarked.

"What did the trolls say? He's just a little outside nature's laws!" Elsa replied with a chuckle.

Thomas smiled, chasing after Warner's distancing figure. This was going to be interesting.

* * *

When he had set out on his voyage, the Duke of Weselton had thought his dozen stony-faced Ducal Guards enough for any situation. Now, in the face of Queen Elsa's arrival, he realized just how unprepared he had come to Corona. Looking over his assembled men, packed into this little room in the palace, the heat of the season running in sweat down their brows, and suddenly they seemed quite insufficient indeed.

"Each and every one of you in this room has sworn, by oath, to serve me to your graves," the Duke began, looking each of his guards squarely in the eye. The crimson-clad men stood still as an army of statues, eyes staring straight ahead, chests hardly even moving with their breaths.

Nodding with satisfaction, the Duke continued. "Now is the time to prove that oath. The royal family of Arendelle made port not an hour ago. As you know, the Kingdom of Arendelle has been our rival ever since that _sorceress_ Queen Elsa alienated us from trade and communication. Your job is to shadow and observe the family. Do not interact with them, do not be discovered! Report all findings to me at the end of the day."

The Duke drew himself up ramrod straight. "Men, the rise of our nation shall not be thwarted a second time! For Weselton!"

"_For Weselton!_" the Ducal Guard echoed in unison. The men filed out the door, the sharp rap of their heels receding into the distance.

The Duke smiled darkly. _You will not stop me this time, Snow Queen._

* * *

The royals stepped into a huge, cavernous room, massive pillars on all sides, a kaleidoscope of light filtering in from the stained glass of the ceiling high above. The floor was a white, polished marble, contrasting with the soft red carpet running the length of the chamber. At the far end of the room was a pedestal formed by concentric circles rising from the ground; and atop it stood a great chair, seemingly wrought of solid gold, its upholstery rich and elaborate, its back rising to towering height.

"...And this is the throne room. As you can probably tell, that's the Throne of Corona right there." Warner gestured to the literal seat of power with a hand.

The windows of the throne room were evidently designed to focus all the light onto the throne itself, making it shine radiantly while casting the rest of the chamber in a veil of shadow. The image of the glowing throne was mirrored in everyone's eyes. The effect was quite awe-inspiring.

A glint of sapphire upon the seat of the throne caught Thomas' eye.

"Is it customary to place the crown on the throne itself?" Elsa asked. Evidently his mother had noticed as well.

"Oh, that's a running joke of Father's." Warner replied.

"How so?" Thomas inquired.

"Well, back when he was Flynn Rider, Father was always trying to steal the crown, or so he tells me." Warner explained. "This is sort of his way of showing that he's denounced his thieving ways. Though the crown belongs to him now, anyway, so it really doesn't make much of a difference!" The prince chuckled.

"Well, that crown certainly does look pretty!" Annabeth commented. "How come you never wear a crown, Auntie?"

"Oh, crowns and tiaras hurt my head," Elsa replied simply. Anna gave her daughter a little wink.

"Moving on!" Warner walked back into the hallway, beckoning for the Arendellians to follow.

After a few more steps, the hall abruptly opened to a set of double doors. Warner pulled on the silver handles, only to hear the dull click of the locking mechanism. Even with a few harder wrenches, the doors still would not budge.

"Drat! I left the key back in my parents' room!" The prince gave a final tug before throwing up his arms up in defeat. "I guess I'll have to run all the way back…"

Pascal took the moment to leap from Kristoff's shoulder onto Warner's curly hair, hanging from one of the dark locks and dangling in front of the prince's face.

"Ow! Pascal, what is it?" Warner swatted at the chameleon, only to have the lizard swing onto his shoulder instead. His face a condescending mask, Pascal pulled a small brass key from behind his back, wagging it in front of Warner's nose.

"Oh! You have it!" The prince held his hand out expectantly.

The chameleon handed the key over with three short chirps that sounded suspiciously like tsking, his little lizard head shaking slowly.

Thomas couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. "And I thought Uncle's relationship with Sven was strange!" he exclaimed. That had the uncle in question folding his arms over his chest defensively.

"Hey, you're one to talk about strangeness! Who's the one with a live snowman as a friend and an ice golem as a guardian?" Warner retorted.

"Fair point!" Thomas conceded.

With a click, the doors opened before them to reveal a chamber even grander than the one they had come from. The ceiling was lower in this room, an ornate chandelier hanging from its apex, casting the walls in a soft, warm light. The floor was hardwood, a gigantic sun painted at the centre, smaller suns placed at the edges of its curved rays. Beams of real sunlight slanted in from the tall windows by the far wall.

"Wait, don't tell me!" Anna's eyes swept across the chamber, alight with recognition. "This is your ballroom, isn't it?"

Warner nodded. "We don't use it unless the weather is bad. Mother likes to host all her dances and celebrations either in the village or the courtyard."

A familiar whoop had all eyes returning to Anna, who had removed her shoes and was sliding about the ballroom in her socks. "Newly waxed, too!" the woman exclaimed as she shot past the rest of her family.

Warner blinked. "How is she doing that? You'd think the floor was made of ice…"

Elsa laughed. "She's had plenty of practice on real ice as well, though I suspect it's hardly the same!"

"Oh? Do you go up to the mountains in the winter and skate on the frozen lakes? I've heard it can be quite dangerous… what's going on?" Warner gazed perplexed at Thomas as the young prince stared back at him with amusement.

Thomas looked to Elsa, who gave a small nod. A grin spreading across his face, the young prince tapped his foot on the floor, making sure to look Warner straight in the eye as he did so. A glowing snowflake pattern radiated out from the spot of contact, a thin layer of clear ice forming upon the hardwood, slowly spreading outwards in a perfect hexagonal pattern. Just for effect, Thomas sent a light arctic gust to ruffle his coattails.

"Tell me, does 'Snow Queen' ring any bells?" he asked with a lopsided smile. Warner gaped at the ice that had formed beneath their feet, as if he couldn't quite believe the sight of it. Pascal peeked out from behind the prince's shoulder, eyes wide in awe. With a smile, Elsa gave a little wave of her hand, transforming Warner's dress shoes into a set of ice skates. The prince promptly fell flat on his back.

"Did I mention I can't skate?" he wheezed from the ground.

Thomas extended a hand toward Warner, helping the prince back up. Spotting Pascal, the young prince laughed. "That's really too bad, because it seems your friend can skate quite well!" The little chameleon was zipping about Thomas' miniature ice rink, twirling and pirouetting comically.

"Hey, what about us?" Annabeth and Christopher came running over, Anna matching their steps, a reluctant Kristoff in tow. Seeing her brother-in-law's apprehensive expression, Elsa chuckled. The Snow Queen fitted her family with ice skates with a snap of her fingers, widening Thomas' impromptu rink to encompass the entire ballroom.

The swishing of blades upon ice mingled with joyous cheers and laughter from the Arendellian royal family. Thomas whooped with glee, flying across the ballroom like a miniature whirlwind, the sunlight from the windows casting the ice beneath his feet in an alternating pattern of light and dark. Skating always gave a great measure of exhilaration to him. Ice was his element; upon it, he was free. Taking a glance at Warner, however, Thomas could clearly see this was not the case for the other crown prince.

"C'mon, Warner, skating is easy!" Annabeth called. "Arms out, like this, see? Now, slide your feet as if you were shuffling…"

The Crown Prince of Corona swayed unsteadily, leaning forward at an extreme angle, nether region high in the air. The prince's face grew redder with every passing moment.

"Can we just move on to the next room?" Warner implored, trying vainly to save some shred of dignity from the situation.

"No, no! You're doing it wrong!" Christopher exclaimed. "Stand up! Back straight!"

Warner strived to follow Christopher's directions, only too late realizing that he had unbalanced himself. Arms pinwheeling, legs flailing, the prince toppled upon his rump with an ungainly flop. Thomas chuckled, drawing level with Warner effortlessly.

"Do you need a little help?" he chuckled. Warner made no move to get up, instead sweeping his hands across the surface of the ice. Thomas raised a bemused eyebrow.

"What are you doing?"

Warner suddenly faced him with a devilish grin. "Sod this." Too late, Thomas noticed the makeshift snowball cupped in the prince's hand. He frantically tried to maneuver out of the way, but the slippery ice beneath his skates impeded his acceleration. The soggy projectile made contact with the back of his head with a wet smack.

Abruptly, the ballroom fell dead silent. Slowly, Thomas turned back to face Warner. The prince was gaffawing victoriously, pointing tauntingly up at him. "Hah! How are you going to retaliate without snow?"

There were a few scattered giggles. To Thomas' left, Christopher ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. "Warner, you just threw a snowball at Thomas. _Thomas._" Warner still bore a bemused expression on his face, evidently not yet realizing the full gravity of the situation. Christopher just sighed. "Didn't your parents ever tell you never to start a fight you can't win?"

"But there's no more…"

Thomas summoned a nimbus of glowing magic into his palm, snowflakes beginning to drift through the air around him. Now, it was his turn to smile devilishly.

"...snow." Warner's voice dropped off into apprehensive silence. Pascal peeked out from the folds of the prince's clothing, only to shrink back immediately, covering his eyes with his little chameleon claws.

Thomas winked. "Son of the Snow Queen, remember?" With that, he let fly an unrelenting barrage of snowballs, practically burying Warner in a mound of powder.

Christopher shook his head sagely at the defeated prince. "And _that's _why you never throw snowballs at Tom." Everyone laughed heartily at the statement, even Warner as he shook the snow from his hair.

In the shadows of the doorway, a figure bearing the crest of Weselton slid unnoticed out into the hall, making for his sovereign's chamber with great haste.

* * *

If there was one thing in the world that the Duke of Weselton hated the most, it was waiting. Having to let time pass him by before he could achieve a result was like watching his precious lifeblood slowly dry up in the midday sun. Unfortunately, with Coronan guards ensuring the observation of his every move outside of his chamber, wait was exactly what he had to do.

To stop himself from going utterly mad with impatience, the Duke paced about the room, sparing not a square centimetre of the flooring from the heels of his black boots. It was thus that he found the small, decrepit drawer at an obscure corner of his chamber, a thick coat of dust upon the once shining wood, squeaking from years of disuse. His curiosity sparked, the Duke retrieved the yellowing and flaky parchments within to his desk, poring over them for lack of else to do.

The papers were addressed to the "Captain of the Guards"; a series of reports naming and physically detailing criminals of great concern at the time. A fresh bout of indignation flared in the Duke's chest. Not only had the monarchy commissioned their guards to tail him every moment of the day, but they had given him a room that had obviously once been _used_ by one of those guards! Why, the _nerve_ of those arrogant, _insufferable_...

By some trick of the light, a name upon the parchment caught his eye. _Flynn Rider_. The King of Corona's old persona. The Duke's eyes scanned across the paper on their own accord.

_Crimes: thievery on many counts, suspected rape, evasion of the Royal Guard._

_Known haunts: pubs and taverns; notable sightings at the "Snuggly Duckling"._

_Known associates: Stabbington brothers, Gareth "Hook Hand" Jones, Vladimir van Bane._

_Status: WANTED, dead or alive._

The Duke's lip curled in a sneer. Every ruler had his dark secrets, but it seemed King Eugene's history was quite the lot filthier than most. It was a wonder the kingdom was still intact at all with such a character upon the throne!

Three urgent knocks upon the door shook the Duke from his gloading.

"Who is it!" he called.

"Phillip again, Your Grace!"

The Duke groaned, yanking open the door with a swift jerk. Having evidently learned his lesson from his last experience, the Ducal Guard had already stepped back, so as to not fall face-first into the room a second time. The man was panting profusely, as if having run a great distance, a distraught expression upon his face. The Duke fixed him with a hard glare.

"Well? What news do you have?"

"Your Grace, the Snow Queen has a son-"

The Duke refrained from moving his palm to his face. "Yes, I am _well aware _of that fact! I have been for a decade! Now, I ask again. What _news_ do you have!"

"thesonhasthecurse!"

"Excuse me?"

The guard looked quite agitated now. "Queen Elsa's son has the curse! I saw the boy cover the entire ballroom floor with ice at the tap of his foot! He summoned snow from thin air and buried Prince Warner with a wave of his hand! He..."

The man's voice blurred away into the background. Five words resonated within the Duke's mind, each reverberation increasing in intensity until everything else became naught but white noise. _The son has the curse. THE SON HAS THE CURSE._

_Prince Thomas is a sorcerer._

From all outward appearances, it would have seemed the Duke had suddenly awakened from a stupor. His back straightened. His face hardened into a firm scowl. His gloved hands tightened into fists at his sides. Pushing past his still-babbling guard, the Duke of Weselton marched out into the hall, his heels clicking resolutely upon the hardwood.

He knew what needed to be done.

* * *

_**Of course, as always, PLEASE REVIEW!**_


	16. Of Blade and Coin

_**Disclaimer: Tangled and Frozen belong to Disney.**_

_**WARNING: Slightly vulgar language ahead (hey, the story is rated T for a reason).**_

* * *

**Chapter 16: Of Blade and Coin**

"So how did it go?" The King of Corona's voice punctuated the sounds of food consumption. "You all certainly seem hungry enough!"

"Mmph… You can't blame us!" Anna squeezed out between chews. "This roast is delicious!" The woman's cheeks were bloated with the goose and corn within, her lips stained brown with sauce. Rapunzel giggled as Elsa frowned at her younger sister's utter disregard of etiquette.

Warner gazed upon the bountiful assortment of dishes and platters brimming with foodstuffs positioned across the long table before him. Strangely, he felt no hunger pangs at the sight. He suspected it was because of the regrettable amounts of chocolate he had consumed at the end of his tour guide. At least he hadn't been the only one...

"Mama, how are you still _going_ after all that chocolate you ate?" Annabeth exclaimed.

Christopher was equally flabbergasted. "You took half the whole platter of the stuff!"

"And Warner took the rest," Thomas laughed. "We barely had any left for ourselves!"

Pascal chirped a reply from his position on the arm of Warner's chair.

"Well, that's easy for _you _to say, Pascal!" Kristoff retorted at the little lizard. "You eat one piece and you're stuffed!"

Pascal patted the noticeable bulge on his underside in agreement, phasing to a content yellow complexion.

"Which is just as well," Elsa commented. "Otherwise, we'd have all of you bouncing off the walls from all the sugar!"

"Hey, you weren't so noble either, sister!" Anna mumbled around another mouthful. "Admit it, you were the most upset of all of us when you didn't get your chocolate!"

Elsa's indignant retort was cut off by Rapunzel's laughter. "I can imagine! I would have been absolutely the same in that situation. This chocolate addiction really runs in the family!" The Queen of Corona turned to her son. "But how did the _tour _go?"

Warner cleared his throat. "Well, they were certainly well mannered…" The scathing glares of the Arendellian royals bored into him unanimously. "...not that I expected you _not _to be! Anyway, they really seemed to love the courtyard and the Portrait Hall..."

"You have a painting of Joan of Arc, too!" Anna piped.

"Oh, that old thing? She was here _long_ before I became King. Is it important, somehow?" Eugene enquired.

"Well, the portrait of Joan back at Arendelle Castle was sort of my childhood friend," Anna explained. "I… didn't get around much often back then…" The woman looked to her sister, who suddenly seemed dejected, a sad light in her ice blue eyes, her head bowed ever so slightly. Warner sensed a story there, but by the look on the Queen of Arendelle's face, it would probably be wise for his intrigue to wait.

"And guess what else?" he chirped to break the sudden silence. "We went skating in the ballroom!"

"Wait, _skating?_" Rapunzel looked to Elsa with a knowing grin.

The Snow Queen held up her hands. "Don't look at me!" she laughed. "Thomas was the one who created all the ice."

The boy in question raised an eyebrow.

"Well, alright, _most_ of the ice," Elsa conceded with a smile.

"How did Warner do?" Eugene asked with a chuckle. "I know for a fact my boy has never skated in his life!"

"Didn't stop him from making a snowball from the ice that came off of our skates and hitting me with it, though," Thomas laughed. "He's quite resourceful!"

That had both the Coronan monarchs laughing as well. Rapunzel turned a quizzical gaze to the Crown Prince of Arendelle. "Thomas, I've never asked! What is the extent of your gift?"

"Oh, he certainly has powerful magic!" Warner attested. "Enough to cover the ballroom floor in ice with a tap of his foot. It was quite spectacular, actually, but I suspect he made it appear that way on purpose." He looked pointedly to Thomas, who grinned back cheekily. "Also enough to make a whole legion of snowballs appear out of thin air and _bury_ me with them," Warner added with a groan.

"And don't you forget it!" Thomas stated, forking another bite of goose.

"His control is certainly far better than mine was at his age," Elsa agreed, wiping her mouth daintily with a napkin.

"Could Thomas give us a demonstration, perhaps?" Eugene ventured.

The son of the Snow Queen nodded, putting down his fork and raising a hand, palm up. Sparks of magic glowing cold, iridescent blue began to swirl amidst the boy's fingers. Warner stared with rapt attention as a snowflake coalesced above Thomas' palm, the ice clear, the fractals perfect.

Thomas handed his fully-formed creation to the King of Corona, who took it with reverent praise in his eyes. "Incredible..." Eugene breathed as he turned the piece of ice over in his hand.

"As incredible as hair that can heal with a touch? I think not!" Thomas shrugged, making the snowflake disappear with a wave.

"It _is _incredible!" the Queen of Corona exclaimed. "We live in a world of marvellous magic!"

"Marvellous it may be, but magic seems to cause a lot more trouble than good," sighed the Snow Queen. "Which brings me to another question. Have the rest of the party guests arrived yet?"

Eugene nodded. "Lord Nicholas of Bray and the Duchess of Witherton made port while you were away on your tour. Also, a ship flying the French colours was sighted on the horizon about an hour ago."

'You hear that, Tom?" Anna grinned. "There's going to be people from France at the party! You can impress them with your French skills!"

The young prince gave a long, drawn-out groan, leaving Warner with the impression that the boy probably did not enjoy speaking French very much. The rest of the Arendellians laughed.

"Did anyone arrive _before_ us?" Elsa pressed.

"Well, there was one very early arrival," mused Rapunzel. "Some squirrelly old man and his guards. The Duke of—what was it?—Weasel-town?"

"You invited the _Duke of Weselton!?_"

"That's it! Weselton!" As if only then registering Elsa's words, Rapunzel's expression abruptly became one of worry. "Wait, is there something wrong?"

The Queen of Arendelle took a deep breath. "That man tried to _assassinate _me, Rapunzel! Even though it happened two decades ago, that is something I am not willing to let go of!"

"Trust me, we wouldn't have invited that smarmy old man either if it hadn't been completely necessary," Eugene placated.

"And why was inviting him necessary in the first place?"

The King of Corona sighed. "Well, the unfortunate fact is, our kingdom is dependant on Weselton for their coal. We invited the Duke out of courtesy of our trade alliance, nothing more."

Warner watched his father and Queen Elsa stare at each other for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, the Snow Queen gave a long sigh.

"Well, I guess we'll just have to endure the Duke's wretched company for a couple of days." Elsa smiled in apology. "But I'm sure nothing can come close to undermining the happiness of Warner's birthday festival." The Queen of Arendelle stood, brushing nonexistent crumbs from her pristine ice dress. "Now, where are our rooms?"

As if on cue, three men in sharp red suits and black hats marched smartly into the dining hall.

"Right this way, Your Majesty, Your Highnesses!" one of the servants bowed, sweeping an arm toward the doors. The rest of the Arendellians stood as well, removing their neckerchiefs and following the servants out of the chamber for their bedrooms.

The Coronan royals remained seated. Rapunzel looked to Eugene. "Do you think inviting the Duke of Weselton was a good idea?" she asked uncertainly.

Eugene closed his eyes. "No. No, it wasn't."

* * *

By the cover of darkness, a figure moved amidst the shadows of the forest path. Though it was nigh impossible to make out the finer details, the silhouette suggested a lithe, slight man, walking with the brisk pace of one with a destination in mind. Posture bent forward, the tails of his long overcoat swishing with his steps, the lip of his cowl pulled low, he seemed like a wraith in the pallid light of the moon.

It was thus that Marcus Everett shouldered through the beaten door of the tavern, making for the equally dilapidated bar situated by the wall. Ignoring the drunken grunts and slurs of the thugs and bastards around him, he slid onto a stool, placing his elbows upon the grimy surface of the counter. The smiling bartender quickly noticed the new customer.

"Can I get you anything, dear?"

"Something to drink will do," Marcus replied. His voice was barely above a whisper, his cowl concealing all but the tip of his worn nose. The barmaid nodded, reaching behind her for a dented iron mug, moving it to a faucet on the wall to fill it with a frothing brown brew. The man took the tankard with a wordless nod, gulping at the contents without so much as raising his head.

"You're a quiet character, aren't you?" the barmaid ventured. "What has you out here on the outskirts of Corona?"

"They say us men are driven by three things. Our greed, our groins, and our thirst," the man grunted, taking another long drag from his mug. The barmaid leaned forward, giving Marcus a liberal view of her ample bosom.

"So it's a bedwarmer you seek?"

The man laughed; a low, guttural sound. "Don't flatter yourself, girlie." He finished the last of his beer with a swig, setting the mug down upon the counter with a firm clunk. With an almost imperceptible turn of his head, Marcus began to survey the tavern, searching eyes sweeping across the many alcohol-soaked men with cool indifference.

"Who are you looking for, then?" The barmaid cocked her head curiously.

"An employer," he answered.

"Oh? And what line of work would a man such as you be interested in?"

"I would tell you, but then I would have to kill you." Marcus flipped a single silver coin onto the counter.

"For your services."

Something about the man's tone sent shivers down the maid's spine. Swallowing nervously, she hastily took the man's mug, disappearing into the back room behind the bar. A satisfied smile touching his lips, Marcus stepped off his stool in one fluid motion, seeming to meld into the shadows in the corners of the dank room.

Indeed, in his _line of work_, trustworthy employers were hard to come by. After all, those who had use for a hired assassin were never quite the savoury characters themselves. More often than not, men were not actually willing to pay their promised sums, resorting to—how did they put it?—_eliminating the loose end_,instead.

The pathetic rabble gathered in the tavern tonight offered little chance of a fresh job. A pity; his last assignment had ended with him barely escaping with his life, much less his promised coin. Quite the irony to send a man to kill the man whom you had hired to kill _another_ man in the first place, but alas, such was the treachery of his company. Traffic with death, and one would be upon the receiving end of its merciless blade sooner or later.

Giving the interior of the tavern one last glance, Marcus spat in disgust. Nothing but a lot of hopeless men, drowning their sorrows in tankards of cheap beer. His time would be much better spent elsewhere…

But just as he was about to take his leave, another group of men marched into the tavern, the battered door groaning in protest.

The newcomers held themselves with the haughty arrogance of men who thought themselves above the drunken flotsam about the rest of the room. Their crisp crimson uniforms and rigid military stances left no doubt in Marcus' mind; these men were guards. But guards of whom?

The question had barely flared in his mind when the answer presented himself. Pushing through the ranks of the burly guards, an old man strutted into view, squinting out at the tavern through bespectacled eyes. By his elaborately embroidered blue uniform, prim epaulettes, and immaculate moustache, it was obvious this was a man of stature; an aristocrat at the least. What could such a man possibly want from this pathetic congregation of lowlifes and nobodies?

By now, the chatter about the tavern had died down to a thick silence. A sea of bloodshot eyes fixed upon the strangers at the door. From the shadows, Marcus mentally shook his head at the moustached man. One did not walk in to a place like this with such displays of obvious wealth and expect to be able to leave cleanly. Already, he could make out some of the bolder ruffians creeping toward the group, reaching for their blades and pocket flintlocks, waiting for the slightest opportunity to strike.

It was then that the old man cleared his throat.

"Gentlemen, I have reason to believe a wanted man is in your midst." The man's voice was high and nasal, but carried a tone of surprising authority. Enough authority to make every other man in the room freeze in their movements.

Taking a white parchment scroll from one of his guards, the old man unrolled it in front of him. "The man I am looking for is in his mid-thirties. Dark brown hair, green eyes, high-bridged nose." The parchment was flipped outward to show the image inscribed upon it. A portrait. Above the crop of short hair, _WANTED_ was stamped upon the parchment in thick black ink. Below the portrait's chin was a name.

_Marcus Everett_. His name.

At once, Marcus felt cold, searching stares lacerate his body. The urchin he had bumped into on the way in, the man with blackened teeth and tobacco breath he had shoved aside at the door, even the barmaid herself all turned their heads in unison to face the dark corner in which he stood. He pressed himself even tighter against the wall, hunching over in a desperate attempt to stay inconspicuous. Noticing the shifting heads, the moustached man at the door smiled a dark, triumphant smile

"I have been told this Mr. Everett is known wear a cowl."

At the counter, the barmaid gave a gasp of shock. The man with tobacco breath sneered, showing the blackened stumps that were his teeth. "So, what exactly is Everett wanted _for_?" the man slurred.

"The unlawful murder of a certain Dylan Bennett." The old man handed the wanted poster to another of his guards, who rolled it back up with hard, swift motions. In his shadowy corner, Marcus cursed his luck. Not only had his last job failed to earn him any solid gold, but it was coming bloody close to defenestrating his entire career as well. He fingered the hilts of the twin daggers strapped at his sides. The court had no mercy for men like him. If he was to go down, he would go down fighting.

Suddenly, firm hands gripped his arms like steely vices. A hard fist came pounding down upon his temple, jolting him into a world of starburst. He felt another hand rip the cowl from his head, yanking his face up into the light. A kick swept his legs out from underneath him. Thinking they had him incapacitated, the two men holding Marcus began dragging his limp body across the tavern floor.

But the assassin was not to be captured so easily. Feigning unconsciousness, he assessed the situation. These men were definitely of the same allegiance as the moustached man by the door. That must be where they were dragging him to. From what he had seen, the rest of the six guards were still situated around their charge. Thus, the faster he acted, the better his chances were of escape.

Marcus took a deep breath. He struck. Planting one foot firmly upon the floor, he jerked himself upright, aiming a vicious kick with his other leg. His foot met its target with a satisfying smack, the guard to his left relinquishing his hold upon the assassin, collapsing to the ground and clutching at his groin in agony.

One hand now free, Marcus unsheathed a dagger in one swift motion. Before the second guard could retaliate, he slammed the hard steel of the hilt into the man's solar plexus. Even as the man doubled over in pain, Marcus swiftly aimed a second blow to the back of his head, knocking the guard unconscious instantly. Dropping the body to the floor, he flipped his cowl back over his head, pivoting as he prepared to flee.

The sound of blades unsheathing ripped through the tense atmosphere. One moment, Marcus was dashing wildly for the back door; the next, the gleaming tips of three short swords were tickling his throat.

"Hands where we can see them!" one of the guards growled.

Marcus swallowed, feeling his adam's apple brush against cold steel.

"_Do it now_, or I'll cut you a second smile just below the chin!"

He slowly raised his hands over his head, letting his dagger drop to the floor. It fell upon the hardwood with a thud. Instantly, two more crimson-clad men grabbed his arms, forcing him toward the door. The old man there nodded with satisfaction, moustache listing in a caustic smile.

"Gentlemen, our business here is done. Continue on with your... _partaking_!"

With that, the moustached man motioned for his guards, who smartly kicked open the door of the tavern, shoving Marcus out into the night beyond. The feeble light of the bar lamps was extinguished as the battered door slammed shut once more behind them.

The guards held him wordlessly, directing him further down the forest path from whence he came. When they passed out of sight of the tavern, the men shoved him roughly to the dewy ground, directing their swords at his throat once more. Marcus whipped his panicked gaze left and right, searching fervently for a route of escape. Alas, he saw naught but more of the crimson-clad men gazing unwaveringly down upon him, eyes glinting with cold resolve. He felt the gnarled bark of a tree press onto his back. Nowhere left to run. He closed his eyes. So this was how he would meet his end.

The old man's distinctive voice had him looking up once more.

"Marcus Everett." A dark chuckle. "It seems you're quite the… _talented_ man. Not many could have bested a single member of my Ducal Guard, let alone two at once. But I expected nothing less from _you_. You are the man who managed to slit the throat of a certain foreign dignitary while he was _right under_ the noses of the Royal Guards, after all." The moustached man paused for a moment, gesturing to his guards. "Take that dratted cowl off of him! I want to see his face!"

For the second time that night, his hood was ripped from his head. There was a harsh intake of breath from the… Duke, was it? Marcus couldn't help but give a contemptuous laugh.

"Pretty, isn't it?" He slowly ran a finger across the long scar that marred his face from forehead to temple, smiling as the old man cringed. "Just a little further, and I wouldn't be here entertaining you tonight."

The Duke gave himself a little shake, scowl back upon his face. "Can you do it again?" the moustached man demanded.

"Do what?"

"Kill a man quickly, quietly?"

A slow grin of understanding creeped across Marcus' face. "You know, there are better ways to acquire use of my services," he drawled. "Your Grace, is it?"

"Who I am is not of your concern! I will ask you once more, and once more only! _Can you do it_?"

Marcus leaned back against the tree, fingers to his chin, making a show of lazily contemplating his decision. Though he felt all to clearly the edges of the blades pressed to his skin, he smiled to himself. He was needed, thus _he_ had the upper hand now. They wouldn't dare kill him yet.

"Well, that depends largely upon two things, _Your Grace_." The last two syllables dripped mockingly from his tongue. "The target, and of course, the _price_ you are willing to pay to see that target dead."

The Duke surveyed the surrounding forest with squinted eyes. When he was certain there was no one to overhear, the moustached man leaned forward intently. "The target is Crown Prince Thomas of Arendelle."

Marcus' eyes grew wide, then just as quickly narrowed. "You want me to assassinate a _crown prince!?_ Now, I've had some tall orders before, but this… this might as well be outright bloody _regicide_ you're asking me to commit!"

The old man's brow knitted in displeasure. "I wasn't _asking_, criminal!" The guards pressed their blades harder into the flesh of Marcus' throat to accentuate the statement. "I could have you killed and fetch a handsome reward for your carcass from the Coronan authorities! The way I see it, you don't have much of a _choice_, Mr. Everett."

Marcus glared defiantly back at the Duke. "I'm fit to be hanged, drawn, and quartered should your bloody plan fail! _What's in it for me?_"

The Duke's moustache curled in a sardonic smile. "Ah yes, _coin_." Reaching into his side satchel, the man produced a brown canvas pouch, tied off at the lip with twine. It had a swollen look to it; a familiar look. A look that stirred the greed within Marcus' black heart. The contents of the pouch jangled as the Duke gave it a little shake. "Isn't that the sound you scoundrels like best?" The old man chuckled mirthlessly.

Marcus licked his lips, restraining himself from grabbing the pouch like the Duke so obviously wanted him to. "How much gold are we talking here?"

"Five thousand Crowns." The moustached man shifted his hold upon the canvas pouch so that it was dangling mere centimetres from Marcus' face. "Should you complete your _task_, this will be but the smallest fraction of the riches you will command."

Marcus exhaled slowly. Five thousand Crowns. Enough for him to pay the reward for his own capture tenfold. Enough to buy him a nice house on the hills, with a servant or two to spare. Enough to wipe clean the slate for good, to give him a fresh start.

_Take the job, and get mighty rich. Refuse it, and die a poor bastard. _As much as he hated to admit it, the old man was right. He didn't have much of a choice. So he took the pouch. Gingerly pocketed the coin. Ignored the Duke's triumphant sneer.

One last job, and he could live as an honest man for the rest of his days.

* * *

_**Enter, the assassin.**_


	17. Dancing Through the Sun

_**Disclaimer: Of Frozen and Tangled, I own naught.**_

* * *

**Chapter 17: Dancing Through the Sun**

Everything is grey. An opaque, soupy fog that makes it impossible to see more than a metre in front of him. The familiar sound of lapping waves presides in the background, the ground beneath him swaying with a steady rhythm…

_No, not ground. Deck._

The mists abate some, revealing a great mast rising up not far to his right. There come the gruff voices of sailors, carrying an undertone of uneasiness. Shapes of men separate from the fog, some running, some climbing, all seeming in great haste.

A chill wind cuts through his meagre tunic. He shivers.

_Strange. The cold never bothers me…_

The wind picks up, whistling as it flies through the rigging, ripping the obscuring veil of fog into nothingness. He finds himself aboard a strangely familiar galleon. The skies are black overhead. There is a flash. Thunder. The crash of the waves becomes more urgent.

A _pitter-patter_ registers in his ears. The pound of rain onto wooden planks. Fat, heavy drops of water land upon his face, his shoulders, dripping down his back. He shivers again. The shouts of the deckhands crescendo to a panicked cacophony. The skies roar, the lightning blinding, the thunder mocking.

A swell hits the bow, white-flecked foam washing across the deck. The wind no longer whistles; it howls, the rigging groaning in protest. _Hurricane_, comes the fearful cry. He grabs hold of the mast as an even larger wave smashes into the hull. The entire ship lists to the side. Men fall screaming into the abyss.

_BOOM!_ There is a searing flare from directly above him. A bolt flies down from the heavens, impossibly bright. The mast explodes, flaming splinters falling all around him. He is knocked across the deck by an invisible force, his tunic smoking.

The canvas is falling, falling, enshrouded by brilliant tongues of fire. _Fump_. The pungent smell of melting lacquer. The planks are ablaze. He runs. The heat licks at his legs.

The other masts are aflame now. They crack. They fall. Blazing forms of men writhe among the wreckage. Ropes snap, the whiplash cutting sailors in half. Screams of agony fill the air.

The deck tilts once more. The flames subside some. The wind dies altogether. A mountain looms portside; a mountain of water, crested with white. The tilting does not stop this time. Now he is falling. His body meets the sea just as the monstrous wave comes crashing down—

* * *

_Thud thud thud._

Thomas jerked awake, breathing hard, his hands raised in vain attempt to fend off the crushing water. Finding himself not upon the deck of a dying ship, instead tangled in soft bedsheets, he breathed a sigh of relief.

_Thud thud thud._

"Master Thomas? Master Thomas!"

The young prince groaned, drawing himself up to a sitting position, rubbing at his eyes groggily. The bedsheets crackled as they slid from him. Looking down, he groaned once more. The once pristine golden material was covered in sharp tendrils of frost radiating outwards from his body.

Sir Gingivere's voice came again from behind the bedroom door. "Master Thomas, wake up! You are going to miss breakfast!"

A laugh bubbled from Thomas' lips at the sudden sense of déjà vu.

"Alright, I'm up, I'm up!" he called to the knight. Slipping into stockings and a waistcoat, he quickly brushed his platinum-blonde bedhead into submission with one hand, shoving a toothbrush across his teeth with the other. He shouldered out the door midway through the process of pulling on his overcoat, nearly running face-first into his guardian.

"It's quite disrespectful to be sleeping in on Prince Warner's birthday, young man!" the knight reprimanded, pushing his charge out into the hallway by the small of his back.

"That's easy for you to say!" Thomas huffed. "You can't even sleep!"

"All of those who can are probably already down in the dining hall," Sir Gingivere retorted.

"Do you even _know_ Chris? He'll still be snoring away in his bedroom!" the young prince scoffed.

The knight folded his icy arms over his breastplate. "We shall see then, shall we?"

They turned a corner to the double doors to the dining hall, two uniformed servants standing smartly at the sides. If they thought the sight of Sir Gingivere strange, they made no show of it, opening the doors and bowing the duo through. Thomas stepped toward the doorway, but stopped when he realized his guardian was not following. He turned back, giving Sir Gingivere a quizzical look.

"Enjoy yourself," the knight nodded. To Thomas' surprise, Sir Gingivere then turned on his heel and began marching back in the opposite direction.

"Wait, you aren't joining us?"

The knight of ice continued down the hall. "The dignitaries can't be allowed to see me, lest I be cause for more _unrest_. I shall be at your bedroom door, should you need me…" Sir Gingivere turned the corner and was lost from sight.

Thomas contemplated attempting to persuade his guardian to accompany him. But, alas, Sir Gingivere was right; there was no telling how the foreign dignitaries would react to the living suit of armour's presence. Best to play it safe. With a sigh, the young prince walked into the dining hall alone.

"Ah, there's our second crown prince!" greeted a throaty, unfamiliar voice.

"Thomas, you are _late_." The second, scolding tone, however, was much more familiar.

Thomas quickly glanced over laden the dining table. The long dining hall was much more occupied than it had been the night before. The monarchs of Corona still sat in the high-backed chairs at the head of the table, Warner and his quaint little chameleon situated beside them. To the side of the birthday prince now sat a squat man with a short-trimmed beard, who happened to be staring at Thomas in earnest—the owner of the first voice? Upon the next seat down was an older woman, taking tiny bites from the smallest fork available, her dark hair streaked with grey. Closest to the door sat a tall man dressed in a sharp emerald suit, his delicate moustache moving as he chewed with his eyes closed, seeming to savour every bite. On the other side of the table sat Thomas' family, his uncle looking quite subdued amidst so many nobles, his mother fixing Thomas with a reproachful look, his cousins looking at the young prince with surprise; at his tardiness, no doubt. Thomas refrained from rolling his eyes.

_Drat. Chris actually got up in time for once._

"Apologies, Mother," said the young prince as he slid into the only remaining seat as inconspicuously as possible. He was suddenly all too aware of the many sets of eyes now fixed upon him. "I was busy, um, sleeping. Sorry," he finished lamely. When his apology was met with silence, he gingerly forked a piece of egg into his mouth.

"_Mm…_ zis food is _absolument délicieux!_" the emerald-suited man exclaimed enthusiastically between bites.

_So that is the French dignitary_, Thomas thought. He silently thanked the man for redirecting everyone's attention.

The Queen of Corona gave a gracious smile. "Well, my Lord, thank you for saying so! You have our wonderful master chef to thank for that! He's French as well, did you know?"

"Zat is not a big surprise!" The Frenchman chuckled, leaning in conspiratorially. "Pardon my lack of modesty, but it is a well-known fact that all ze best chefs are _français_, _oui?_"

"Hah!" This came from the stout, bearded man. "That is only true if you like French food!"

"Yes, but who does not?" The Frenchman returned to his plate with a smirk upon his lips.

"Oh, Thomas, you aren't yet acquainted with everyone!" Elsa turned to the foreign dignitaries, one hand upon her son's shoulder. The Queen of Arendelle gestured first to the bearded man. "Thomas, this is Lord Nicholas of Bray. My Lord, I present to you my son, Crown Prince Thomas of Arendelle."

"Pleased to meet you, Your Highness," Lord Nicholas replied with a slight bow.

"Greetings, my Lord," Thomas returned with a tight smile.

Elsa turned to the moustached Frenchman. "Seigneur Julien de Vannes."

"_Salutations, Votre Altesse_," the Seigneur nodded to Thomas.

The young prince frantically searched his knowledge of the French language. "Um… _Salutations, mon Seigneur._"

The Frenchman laughed. "_C'est vrai! Prince Thomas parle bien le français!_" he exclaimed to Anna, who nodded enthusiastically. Christopher's and Annabeth's faces looked ready to burst from holding in their mirth. Thomas himself was well aware of the irony of the situation, but it did nothing to stop him from shooting his cousins a cheeky smirk. The Seigneur looked back and forth between the royals with a bemused expression.

All became respectfully silent once more as the Queen of Arendelle cleared her throat. "And last, but certainly not least, the Duchess of Witherton," Elsa pronounced as she gestured to the serious-looking woman sitting across from Thomas.

"Good morning, Your Highness." The Duchess' voice was as piercing as her gaze, which she leveled hard at the young prince.

"Likewise, Your Grace," Thomas returned, slightly tentative. He turned back to all of the dignitaries. "Pleased to meet you all!"

"As are we!" Lord Nicholas smiled. The man then turned to face the King of Corona. "But there is one whom we have not had the honour of meeting! Where is the _esteemed_ Duke of Weselton?" The other dignitaries nodded in assent. Elsa raised a questioning eyebrow at King Eugene.

The King of Corona sighed. "He couldn't make it to breakfast today. Said he had 'business to attend to'."

"Just as well! I cannot stand ze company of snakes!" Seigneur Julien sniffed. "It is a wonder zat man still holds ze power in his country!"

"Yes, quite peculiar, given the man's age," commented the Duchess of Witherton. "He should have been succeeded a good decade ago!"

"Why hasn't he been?" asked Julien.

"There are rumours," Lord Nicholas leaned in, "that the Duke is denying his heir the seat of power."

"I wasn't aware that he had a heir," said Elsa, intrigued. "Is the Duke even married?"

"No, but he has a brother whose wife had borne children," explained the Duchess. "They should have come of age long ago..."

"Ahem! Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here to celebrate my son's birthday, not to gossip about the Duke of Weselton's lack of children!" came an exclamation from the head of the table. The Queen of Corona wore a hard mask of discontent upon her features, her arms held stiffly at her sides. Pascal stood upon Rapunzel's head, scales an angry maroon, his claw pointing accusingly out at the assembled dignitaries. The nobles blinked in shock.

"A word to the wise: never anger my wife," Eugene winked.

"_Je suis très désolé, Votre Majesté_," apologized the Seigneur, head bowed in shame.

The rest of the meal commenced with many fewer words exchanged. At the chiming of the clock, the nobles put down their utensils, wiping their mouths with silk napkins. With barely a clink, the plates were quickly cleared away by servants. More uniformed men filed into the dining hall, handing each guest a small scroll of parchment.

"A schedule of events," Queen Rapunzel explained. Thomas read over his own copy.

_Eight of the clock __Ante Meridiem__ \- Breakfast: Dining hall_

_Nine of the clock __Ante Meridiem__ \- Opening ceremony: Courtyard_

_Ten of the clock __Ante Meridiem__ \- Kingdom Dance: Village square_

_One of the clock Post Meridiem - Pan competition: Village square_

_Four of the clock Post Meridiem - Concert and play: Theatre_

_Seven of the clock Post Meridiem - Ball: Courtyard_

_Nine of the clock Post Meridiem - Dinner: Dining hall_

_Ten of the clock Post Meridiem - Festival of the Lights: Bay_

"Ooh, a pan competition!" Anna commented excitedly. "Could that be what I think it is?"

"It's a bit of a tradition," explained Eugene with a grin. "Our fine Pan Platoon is a great point of pride for us! After all, the frying pan trumps the sword, as Rapunzel taught me all those years ago!"

Thomas smiled to himself, remembering Eugene and Rapunzel's tale from the day before. Catching a glimpse of the clock in the far corner, however, he scratched the back of his head in confusion. _Wait, if the opening ceremonies start at nine, why are we still here at ten past?_

Apparently his uncle had picked up on the discrepancy as well. Leaning toward Rapunzel, the mountain man cupped a hand to his mouth. "Your Majesty, uh, sorry to interrupt, but I think the clock struck nine about ten minutes ago," Kristoff whispered.

"Kristoff, I told you, call me Rapun… wait, what did you say?"

Warner stood up abruptly, evidently having come to Kristoff's conclusion himself. "Mother, I believe we are late."

"I believe we are," echoed Eugene. In the blink of an eye, there was naught but empty air in the space that the Coronans once occupied.

"We sincerely hope you enjoyed the meal!" Rapunzel called back to the guests. The receding hem of her dress disappeared out the doorway with a swift billow.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, Lord Nicholas spoke. "Well then, I think we all should be in the courtyard!"

"Yes, I believe we should!" stated the Duchess of Witherton.

As one, the nobles made for the doors as well.

Anna laughed. "Rapunzel's becoming as unorganized as me!"

Elsa shook her head. "No, it would take quite the amount of disorganization before Rapunzel is anywhere near _your_ level, sister," she deadpanned. The sister in question stuck her tongue out in retaliation, before being pushed out the door by her husband.

"Auntie's right, you know!" Annabeth called after her mother.

"Even my _daughter_ is against me!" Anna groaned dramatically.

Thomas and Christopher merely shook their heads with amusement.

* * *

Warner stood behind the double doors to the balcony. Even behind the wooden barriers, he could clearly hear the chattering audience gathered just beyond in the palace courtyard. He took a deep breath in an attempt to calm his heart, which was racing from more than just his recent run.

"Are you ready, son?" his father asked quietly, his mother's hands already upon the door handles.

Warner gave a weak nod. "Ready as I'll ever be." Pascal gave him a little pat on the neck from his shoulder.

His mother turned her head to give him a last reassuring smile before she gave a push, revealing them to the world beyond. The sudden light dazzled Warner's eyes, leaving him squinting in the bright summer sun, the breeze tickling at his nose. He felt his father's hands upon his shoulders, guiding him onto the balcony.

"My brothers and sisters! My friends! My _people!_" the Queen of Corona began, her smile as brilliant as the sun itself. "Today, we gather for a momentous occasion! For upon this fifteenth day of August, my beautiful son Warner Fitzherbert, the Crown Prince of Corona, completes his seventeenth year of life!" Rapunzel swept her arm grandly to her son, who gave the audience a tentative smile of his own.

The crowd filling the courtyard burst into applause. Almost unconsciously, Warner's eyes scoured the sea of faces. Though most were unfamiliar, he found the Arendellian royals to the side, the nobles from breakfast not far from them. The sight them left him with both relief and apprehension. Though this was supposed to be a day for enjoyment, alas, it was also undoubtedly a time for scrutiny.

_The dignitaries will be watching the future king_, thought Warner darkly._ Analyzing me._ _Judging my every move_. He felt Pascal shrink back into his hair, seemingly of the same mindset.

"And what better way to begin the celebrations than with song?" his mother continued, after the applause had abated. His father stepped forward.

"Citizens of Corona, with my divine right and power as King, not to mention my own personal devilish powers of persuasion…" Eugene wagged his eyebrows, his face scrunched in that famous _smoulder_, resulting in scattered laughter from the audience. "...I command you all to sing in celebration of my son's birthday! Sing!"

Warner gave a start. _Wait, this was never in the_—

But the situation was already far out of his hands. From somewhere below, trumpets played an introductory flourish, leaving no doubt regarding the piece that was to be sung. Lead by the King's own, the voices of an entire people rang out into the summer air.

"_Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you!"_

Powerless, Warner felt blazing heat creep up his cheeks.

"_Happy birthday..._" At that particular section, the lyrics fell into a disjointed mess as the citizens split in their indecision between either "dear Warner", "Prince Warner", or "Your Highness". The prince in question now felt as if his entire face were positively glowing with his embarrassment—which it probably was.

"_Happy birthday to you!_" came the finale, followed by boisterous laughter and cheers from the villagers. Warner risked a glance at the foreign dignitaries down in the courtyard. He was surprised and relieved to find the nobles cheering along with the citizens.

"Let the festivities _begin!_" proclaimed his father, spreading his arms wide. With a short fanfare from the royal trumpets, the huge main gates swung open dramatically. A party of ceremonially dressed Royal Guards marched out, lead by none other than the Captain of the Guards riding upon Maximus, his golden cape flowing out grandly behind him. The great white steed turned, facing his left flank to the audience as the rest of the guards formed a symmetrical phalanx on both sides.

As one, the men drew the ornate ceremonial muskets from the straps on their backs, facing the barrels to the sun. The Captain of the Guards wordlessly produced a frying pan emblazoned with the Sun of Corona from his hip, raising it as if it were a sword. Starting from the far right, the Royal Guards fired their muskets in quick succession in a spectacular salute.

Having reemerged from Warner's hair, Pascal gave a few chirps of appreciation.

Before the smoke even fully cleared, the guards had already dispersed, a band of fiddlers, flutists, and lute players quickly taking their place. At the first resonating note from the fiddle, the voices of the crowd quieted to anticipatory silence. The bearded fiddler played a few tuning notes before donning a wide-brimmed hat, beginning a light jig. The lute player joined in with a background pattern, smiling all the while, fingers barely seeming to touch the strings. The flutist put her long instrument to her lips, a high and joyous counter-melody flowing forth.

The sweet music washed over the crowd, seeming to sparkle in the air. Suddenly, everything seemed more accented, the colours sharper, the sun more radiant than before. The people in the courtyard began to shift, raising their arms above their heads, clapping their hands in time to the rhythm. It was as if the music had a soul of its own; a soul that left no man nor woman untouched by its euphoria. Despite himself, Warner's face cracked into a wide grin.

By his side, his mother was already bouncing with glee. "Quickly, quickly! We have to get down to the courtyard before the dancing starts!" she exclaimed, dragging his father toward the doors.

Smile still upon his lips, Warner followed after his parents.

* * *

After the King had commanded everyone to sing "Happy Birthday", Thomas couldn't stop laughing. By Warner's expression, it had been quite obvious that he had not known about this particular part of the festivities. The colour the Crown Prince's face had turned had been comparable to that of an overripe tomato. Luckily, the noise of the crowd had drowned out the sounds of Thomas' mirth. Nevertheless, his mother had fixed him with a reprimanding look.

"What?" he asked innocently. "I'm just happy for the birthday prince!"

From the balcony above, Eugene's voice rang out, "_Let the festivities begin!_"

At the entrance to the palace, the main doors opened with a bang, a score of Royal Guards marching out, one of them astride upon a great white horse.

"Hey, it's Maximus!" Kristoff laughed, pointing to the gallantly posed steed. Despite their great differences, Thomas could see the white stallion's similarities to old Sven back home. Both had that _intelligence_, that light of understandingin their eyes.

Fanning out into a wedge formation, the men drew what appeared to be ornately carved staffs from their backs, pointing them to the sky.

"What are those?" Christopher asked.

"Muskets," Lord Nicholas answered from a ways to the left, nodding with appreciation. "Top of the line weaponry, those. They use the same black powder that's used in cannons to fire steel balls at deadly speed. These are probably ceremonial, so they won't have the balls loaded."

Sure enough, with a series of consecutive bangs, the muskets fired, clouds of smoke curling from the barrels. Thomas flinched back instinctively at the deafening noises. He caught Annabeth smiling wryly at him.

Before he could think of a way to retaliate, however, the lone call of a fiddle cut through the air. The people around quickly became silent, faces alight with anticipation. Thomas' eyes found the small band of musicians that had taken the place of the Royal Guards. Slowly, almost tentatively at first, the fiddler ran his bow across the strings of his instrument. The lute player joined in, the flutist as well, soon after. With cheers, the people began to clap.

"Ah, _la musique! _How simple it can be, yet beautiful!" The Seigneur sighed, a hand to his bosom. Thomas couldn't help but agree. The sounds of the instruments melded together into lively song that seemed to flow into his very soul, filling it with inexplicable joy. His worries sloughed from him like a second skin, melting away in the atmosphere of celebration.

The crowd moved away from the centre of the courtyard, revealing the tiled likeliness of the sun upon the floor. From far away, the church bells tolled. _Ten o'clock._ Realization dawned on Thomas. _Kingdom Dance!_

As if in reply, the music settled into a steady chorus; a rhythmic melody fit for dance. It was then that the Coronan royals burst into view from the front gates, their rapid breathing doing nothing to dim the grins upon their faces.

"Let the Kingdom Dance begin!" cried Rapunzel, swooping down and pulling a random villager from the crowd into the centre of the sun. Even as the surprised man began his first twirl with the smiling Queen, Eugene was already pulling another villager into the fray. Slowly at first, people began to move into the tiled sun on their own accord, skipping and twirling in time to the fiddle.

Rapunzel turned back to her son, extending a hand. "Come on, Warner, join in!" Thomas saw the prince hold up his hands, face showing embarrassment, even a little fear. Tilting her head, the Queen pressed on.

"Warner, you _have_ to take part in a dance that is held in your own honour! Come on, dance!"

By then, the rest of the people had taken notice, looking to the Crown Prince with benevolent smiles. A single voice called out.

"Dance, Your Highness! Dance!"

Others quickly joined in.

"Dance! Dance!"

In an instant, the entire courtyard was resonating with the single repeated word.

"_Dance! Dance! Dance! Dance!_"

Thomas watched Warner's face grow even redder than before. He truly felt bad for the prince for being put on the spot in such a way, but the villagers didn't mean any harm! _Why doesn't he just dance? How bad could it be?_

It was then that, from across the courtyard, Warner made eye contact with Thomas. The Crown Prince of Corona must have noticed the amused smile on the Crown Prince of Arendelle's lips, because he raised his hands for silence.

"You want me to dance?" he began. "Very well… but you all probably know that I am not the only crown prince here."

Thomas started._ What is he playing at? _he mused.

Warner continued, "I will dance, but _only_ if the Crown Prince of Arendelle dances as well!" The prince fixed Thomas with his gaze, grinning wickedly. Following Warner's proclamation, every head in Thomas' vicinity turned to stare at him intently. The young prince gulped.

_I take it back. Dancing is probably detrimental to physical and mental health, somehow…_

The chant began anew, albeit with a different target. "_Dance! Dance! Dance!_"

"Come on, Tom! I never thought you a coward!" teased Annabeth, giving him a little push that he fought off fiercely.

"Oh, how bad could it be?" laughed Christopher. "Mum's seeming to have a great deal of fun!" Indeed, Anna had joined the dance at her first chance.

Thomas looked wildly to _his_ mother, who merely winked. "Just do it, Thomas. You'll be surprised how enjoyable it can be if you simply _let it go._"

Looking back across the courtyard, the Thomas made eye contact with Warner. He nodded to the other crown prince, who nodded back with a smile. He swallowed his apprehension, walking into the centre of the tiled sun. With the cheers of the crowd in the background, he let the song of the fiddle take reign over his movements, watching Warner do the same.

Thomas danced.

* * *

Marcus never had been one for birthday parties. Certainly not for the ceremonies of disgusting excess held in honour of members of the upper class. Indeed, on any other day, he would have been on the other side of the country during the birthday ceremony of the Crown Prince himself.

This day, however, he had a job to do.

He moved silently through the crowd, hood pulled low, head hunched; just another man amidst a sea of excited spectators. Reaching the edge of the courtyard, he stopped, making sure to keep two rows of citizens between him and the dancers at the centre. He raised his head ever so slightly, eyes staring out from under the lip of his cowl. Watching, observing, invisible.

His gaze settled on the Queen of Corona, conversing animately with her son. Intrigued, he edged sideways through the massed spectators until he was within earshot.

"...your own honour! Come on, dance!"

Around him, men gradually took notice of the conversation as well. A chant started, gradually growing in volume. "_Dance! Dance! Dance! Dance!_" The boy's face grew red with embarrassment, evidently uncomfortable with the idea.

But that was the Crown Prince of _Corona_. Marcus' eyes went back to roving through the crowd; his target was elsewhere. How had the old man described him? _A boy of fourteen years. Fair in complexion, striking blonde hair on the verge of white._

The voice of the birthday prince caught Marcus' attention.

"...I will dance, but _only_ if the Crown Prince of Arendelle dances as well!"

Immediately after the statement, there was a shift in the crowd. Marcus smiled to himself, silently thanking Prince Warner. Now the whole of Corona was assisting the assassin in his search. Within moments, it was evident that the Crown Prince of Arendelle had been located. The chant started up once more.

"_Dance! Dance! Dance!_"

Under the unknown scrutiny of Marcus' gaze, the people on the other side of the ring parted, revealing a youth clothed in the rich fabric of a royal. The boy's slate grey eyes flitted over the crowd with apparent apprehension and embarrassment. His head of stark white-blonde hair glinted in the intense summer sun. The Crown Prince of Arendelle walked tentatively into the centre of the courtyard and was immediately taken by the arm by a smiling villager. From the other side of the ring, Prince Warner joined the Kingdom Dance much the same way.

After laying eyes upon his target at long last, Marcus felt something stir within his gut; a strange something, bitter and sour at once. With a start of surprise, he realized it was _guilt_. When he had heard the title of Crown Prince, he had expected a bratty child spoilt by an upbringing of excess and luxury. Instead, he was faced with the individual before him; a boy on the threshold of manhood, yet still glowing with the sweet innocence of a child. A boy who had so much left to live for…

He shook himself. _No._ This was not the time to become soft in the heart. He shook his head once more to clear it before pulling his hood low, slinking from the palace courtyard. He had gathered all the information he needed. It was time to prepare himself for the task at hand.

* * *

_**As always, REVIEWS are greatly appreciated!**_


	18. Chocolates and Cellos

_**Disclaimer: I am fast running out of creative ways to state how I DO NOT own Frozen or Tangled.**_

* * *

**Chapter 18: Chocolates and Cellos**

Warner had never been the sort of person who danced. Most certainly not in the lively, unceremonious jig the annual Kingdom Dance entitled. The prince had always considered it to be a traditional sort of affair; a commemoration of his mother's past, if not simply a means to keep in good touch with the villagers. And there was always the certainty that younger individuals of the female variety would simply _love _his company in such a situation. Suffice to say, Warner had cared little for the Kingdom Dance. Had he not been forced to participate in such a way, the Crown Prince would never have set even a single foot in the tiled sun at the centre of the courtyard.

Indeed, had anyone asked Warner's opinion on the subject after the dance had passed, his response would have been much the same. However, deep inside, something had shifted while he had spun across those tiles. There had been a _spirit_ to the dance—a feeling that, for one glorious moment, he had been part of a greater whole. In the end, he had been enjoying himself a great deal. Though he would rather cut out his own tongue than admit it.

From beside him, he caught Prince Thomas shooting him an amused look. Realizing he had an idiotic smile plastered on his face—and from just _reminiscing _the dance, at that—Warner quickly scrunched his lips into submission.

"You enjoyed that dance _way _more than you've let on, didn't you?" the other crown prince teased, biting into the apple in his hand with an audible crunch. Warner folded his arms over his chest defensively.

"Speak for yourself. You looked the picture of happiness back there!" he retorted, sticking a thumb back in the direction of the palace.

"I, unlike you, am not ashamed to admit I quite enjoyed the experience," Thomas replied with a smirk. "That is, until I elbowed that man in the face…" His words were interrupted by the distinctive _PLONG _of pans clashing down in the arena that had become of the village square. Cheers erupted all around as yet another two contestants traded blows with their weaponized kitchen utensils.

"So, uh, what are your thoughts on the pan competition so far?" asked Warner, in an attempt to change the subject.

"Well, it seems similar to fencing, in some ways," Thomas answered, his gaze returning to the cobbled square where the men jousted on. "Except for the obvious difference in choice of weapons, of course."

As if to accentuate the statement, one competitor's pan was knocked from his hand by his grinning rival, hitting the smooth bricks of the ground with a clang. Maximus reared up behind the two men, neighing loudly to signal the end of the match.

"Also, strange that you have a _horse _acting as the referee…" Thomas mumbled, taking another bite of his apple.

Warner laughed. "Well, old Max isn't your average horse, that's for certain! Did you know that he acted as the Captain of the Guards for a while? True story!"

Thomas chuckled. "You certainly have your share of amazing animals in the family! Which reminds me, where is that chameleon of yours?" The other crown prince gestured at Warner's shoulder.

"Oh, Pascal? He's just hungry. He'll be back when he's nabbed enough flies from the fruit parlour," Warner shrugged. "What about your family, Thomas? Where are your cousins?"

"Hungry," the other prince replied simply, continuing to munch on his apple. "I would've gone with them, but I wanted to witness this competition. It's my first time in Corona, after all. I shan't miss a thing!"

"I've never been to your kingdom before, either. What's Arendelle like?" Warner wondered aloud.

"Oh, Arendelle is many things." Thomas' voice drifted off, a faraway look in his eyes. "The sun is not as hot back home. The forest beyond the town is dense and green. The fjord is the colour of the deepest sapphire…" At that, Thomas returned his gaze to Warner's eyes. "But what is most beautiful about home are the mountains. The village is ringed by them, great and majestic. The snow at their peaks never melts, not even on the hottest summer day."

"Ah, but with you, there doesn't need to be mountains for there to be snow, does there?" Warner ventured.

For a moment, it was as if Thomas himself had become ice. Inhaling slowly, the other prince looked down ever so slightly, face suddenly expressionless. "No, I suppose not."

The silence that followed was filled with awkward tension. Warner restrained himself from shifting nervously from foot to foot.

_Dare I press further?_

In the end, curiosity won out. The prince took a deep breath, clearing his throat nervously. "Ahem… Thomas, what is it… like, to have magic as you do?"

For an eternity, the other prince just stared back, face as blank as stone. Finally, the smallest of smiles graced Thomas' lips. "I don't know, Warner. What is it like to not?" There was a flash of cold blue from the younger boy's closed fist. The other prince opened his palm, a small snowflake already resting at its centre. "I've been able to do this since as long as I can remember. This is all I've ever known."

Warner grinned back with more than a hint of relief. "I suppose that's as good an answer as any." He reached over and patted Thomas on the shoulder. "Say, there's more to this country than just watching people fence with frying pans! Why don't I take you for a visit to our famous chocolatier?"

Another pause. A slow smile spread across the other crown prince's face. "Well, now that you bring it up, I _am _quite peckish for a bit of good chocolate…"

* * *

Christopher had never thought his homeland of Arendelle to be boring in the slightest. The kingdom he lived in had always been busy and prosperous, certainly not lacking in life or fervour. Nonetheless, walking through the bustling streets of Corona, he couldn't help but feel overwhelmed by the sheer, omnipresent _activity_ everywhere.

Wherever he looked, heads poked from windows, from behind kiosks and shop doors, raciously declaring their products and services to the world. Upon the streets of brick and cobble were an unimaginable menagerie of people, walking, running, and doing every conceivable thing in between. Grimy urchins clothed in even dirtier in rags scurried amidst haughty aristocrats complaining of the dust on their immaculate boots. A somber-faced man sat in the dark street corner, strumming a melancholy tune on his lute. A jester rode by, astride upon a queer single-wheeled contraption, juggling colourful orbs with nimble fingers.

"Oh, I _love_ this place!" Anna exclaimed, flitting from one shop to the next, seemingly wanting to be everywhere all at once. "Look at these amazing flowers! Ooh, those model ships look just like the real ones! And are those actual _diamonds?_..."

Kristoff put a restraining hand on his wife's shoulder. "Whoa there, feistypants. Relax, okay? Just calm down!" But Anna payed her husband little heed, as always.

"Elsa, why can't we have rooftop banners like these in the village back home?" The younger sister bounced on her feet, pointing to the garlands of purple flags draped from roof to roof high above.

Elsa fingered her long platinum braid, smiling in amusement at her sister's antics. "Well, next time there is a major celebration of some sort, I'll look into it." At Anna's bemused expression, Elsa raised an eyebrow. "What, did you seriously think all these decorations are set up on a regular basis? It's the Crown Prince's _birthday_. The entire kingdom is bound to be the _epitome _of excitement and flair!"

Kristoff chuckled. "Elsa, I've _never _heard you say the word 'epitome' before."

"Only the best for my sister," the Queen of Arendelle teased, but the younger woman was already gone. The family continued down the street, chasing after Anna's double strawberry braids.

"So, where are we going to eat?" Annabeth quipped.

Christopher shook his head, smiling wryly. "Anna, didn't we just have lunch, like, half an hour ago?"

His sister rolled her eyes. "I know, I know. Where are we going to eat _dessert_, silly?"

"I heard the village has an excellent chocolatier," Elsa mused. At the word "chocolate", Anna stopped dead in her tracks, head whipping back in her sister's direction. "And after that _tiny_ _little _taste last afternoon" the Queen continued, levelling an accusatory glare at her sister, "I think it's safe to say that we are all wanting more."

"Hear, hear!" said Kristoff. Annabeth and Christopher cheered in approval.

"The chocolate shop is near the village square," Elsa informed. Everyone filed wordlessly behind the Queen, unanimous in their craving for the delicious sweet.

"For chocolate, we will follow you to the ends of the Earth," Annabeth stated, dropping a low curtsey to her aunt. Catching on to the joke, the rest of the members of the family each dropped their own curtseys and bows to Elsa, motioning for her to lead with sweeping gestures.

"Seems like I've found the key to your obedience!" the Queen laughed, shaking her head. The royal family turned down a side street, a single platinum braid now at its head.

After a few more turns, they stepped out into the intense sunlight of the village square. The grating sound of frying pans clashing resonated throughout the open space. Pointing to the centre of the square, Christopher's father gave a shout. "Hey, it's Maximus!"

The great white steed was standing stiffly behind two burly men locked in fierce combat. Sweat poured from the men's foreheads, their arm muscles bulging as they gripped the pans in their hands, teeth clenched. The thick crowd of spectators cheered and hooted their encouragement to the combatants, waving flags and stamping their feet.

Finally, there was a deafening _CLANG_ as, with a great swing, one of the men knocked the pan from his rival's hand with force. The battered utensil fell to the street in defeat. Maximus reared up, pronouncing the victor with a resounding neigh. Wiping the perspiration from his brow, the champion pulled his exhausted opponent from the ground, clapping the man on the back with a friendly chuckle. The two shook hands and laughed good-naturedly.

The roaring crowned quieted, parting as King Eugene walked through. Striding up to the victor, the King of Corona ceremoniously presented the man with a glimmering medallion inscribed with the likeness of a frying pan.

"Presenting the winner of this year's Pan Competition…_ Vladimir van Bane!_" Eugene shouted, clapping the burly champion on the back. "Good going, Vlad!" The spectators erupted into applause.

The hulking man merely smiled, moving to the side of the impromptu arena and picking up a metal hat with gigantic protruding antlers that sat upon the bricks. Donning his headwear, Vladimir turned and lumbered down the street.

"Many customers. Must get back to ceramic unicorns," the enormous man's gravelly voice drifted back.

As the mass of spectators began to disperse, Maximus caught sight of the Arendellians. Snorting to get Eugene's attention, the horse trotted over to Kristoff, giving a short neigh.

"Hey, Max, nice to see you! How have you been doing all these years, buddy?" the mountain man greeted. Maximus started, giving Kristoff an indignant snort.

Kristoff puffed his chest out, imitating the horse with a deep, serious voice. "_Don't call me buddy, buddy._"

"Well, alright, if you insist," he answered in his own voice, with a laugh.

"Does he talk with every animal he meets?" Anna mock-groaned. "It's like Sven all over again!"

Maximus fixed the woman with a steely glare, neighing loudly.

Kristoff folded his arms over his chest. "Maximus isn't happy with you calling him an animal. Are you Max?" The horse neighed again, as if in agreement.

Anna put her palm to her face. "This is so unnatural. You're lucky that I think it's cute."

At that, Maximus leaned in to Kristoff, wagging eyebrows in a surprisingly human fashion.

"Don't be teasing our visitors, Max," Eugene chuckled, wagging a finger at the white horse as he strode up to the Arendellian royals. "Hello, Your Majesty, Your Highnesses! I hope you've been enjoying yourselves today," he said to the royals, bowing.

Elsa smiled. "Oh, certainly! And please, just Elsa." Despite her own words, the Queen of Arendelle dropped a curtsey to the King of Corona. "We were just making our way to the chocolate shop for some dessert."

"Really? In that case, I'll come with you. There's nothing better to finish off a good meal than some good chocolate!" Eugene looked upwards in thought. "Well, other than Attila's cupcakes, that is. I've got to take you for a visit to that guy's bakery sometime!"

The Arendellians just blinked back at him. "Chocolate," they uttered in unison.

Eugene raised his hands. "Okay, chocolate it is! The shop is just this way." The King lead them across the now-empty square, stopping at a solid, cozy building constructed of dark wood. The sign above read _Ye Old Chocolatier_ in flowery print. Eugene gestured to the equally solid oaken door. "Here we are! Oh, and Maximus, stay outside."

The horse snorted, as if commenting on the obviousness of the command. Anna pushed open the door, sounding the jangling chimes within. The family filed through the doorway, Eugene in tow.

The interior of the chocolate shop was of the same style as the exterior. Shelves of glass and wood lined the sides of the spacious room, the chocolates within glinting tantalizingly in the sunlight filtering in through the long windows. At the centre of the space were several round wooden tables and chairs, pristine and shining with lacquer.

At one of the tables sat two young gentlemen. The taller bore a striking resemblance to the King of Corona, and the other was unmistakable with his stark platinum hair and slate eyes. A platter of rapidly dwindling chocolates sat upon the table between the two.

Ironically, it was Warner who spoke first. "Hello, Dad. What are _you_ doing here?" the Crown Prince asked meekly, gingerly wiping the brown stains from the corners of his mouth.

Eugene's reply was cut short by the faint clearing of an aged throat.

"Good afternoon! Could I get you something?" asked a kindly voice. It was only then that Christopher noticed the short old woman peeking from behind the front counter, blinking at them through thick glasses that magnified her eyes. Looking from face to face, the shopkeeper's eyes grew impossibly wide. "Oh. Oh! Your Majesty! No, Your Majest_ies! _How I have forgotten myself!"

Elsa stopped the woman before she could curtsey. "No, no, it's quite alright! We get plenty of formalities from everyone we meet, all day long, so we've had more than enough. Just consider us regular customers. Please."

The old lady nodded shakily, evidently still shocked to be in the presence of so many royals. "In… in that case, what would you like?"

"Surprise us!" Anna chirped. "I'm not good at making choices, anyway."

The shopkeeper looked to the rest of her customers. "And will you be sharing, then?"

"Yep!" came the reply.

The old lady nodded in satisfaction. "_Order! One extra large variety platter, and make it special!_" she hollered over her shoulder. Through the open doorway to the back of the shop, Christopher could make out several younger boys in brown aprons scurrying about. The shopkeeper turned back to Elsa. "Will you be enjoying it here, or to go?"

At that moment, four tolls of the faraway church bells had the royals starting.

"To go, because, for the second time time today, we are late!" Eugene exclaimed.

"How wonderful," Warner groaned sarcastically. "And the theatre is all the way on the other side of the village, too."

"Are they at my level, yet?" Anna asked cheekily. Elsa just laughed.

* * *

Marcus strolled across the sun-baked bricks of the street, watching them slowly age and crumble beneath his feet. The rays of the sun cut down from overhead, making the clouds of dust in the air seem almost solid. Around him, the primly dressed merchants and businessmen gave way to ragged waifs and beggars, the neat rows of shops and houses to decrepit hovels and shacks. He smiled mirthlessly to himself. Even a prosperous kingdom such as Corona had its poor districts: places of negligence and filth, where the fetid leftovers of society gathered in pitiful heaps.

Alas, places like these possessed a quality that was an absolute necessity to Marcus in his line of work: invisibility. No ruler was ever proud of the slums of his nation; indeed, many preferred to disregard them altogether. Thus, the poor districts were the perpetual blind spot in the eye of the law. Places where an assassin could carry out his unsavoury endeavours in secret.

The shed was just as dilapidated as its surroundings. Dusty, bent, and arid, it sat precariously to the side of the broken path, seeming a strong gust away from collapse. The dried remnants of dead mosses clung to its greying walls; a stained tarp flapped in place of a windowpane. Dirty and unkempt, it was utterly inconspicuous among the ranks of the ramshackle houses all around.

Giving the surrounding buildings one last surreptitious check, Marcus pushed open the warped wooden door with a creak. Inside, he was greeted with a shower of dust, the old door groaning shut once more behind him. He removed his hood, eyes slowly adjusting to the dimness of the interior. Meagre sunlight filtered in from the cracks in the ceiling, illuminating the dust particles swirling through the stagnant air. The walls and shelves were coated in thick grey, the dust mixing with the windblown debris and sand covering the wooden planks that were once the floor.

Warding off dust motes from his face, Marcus made for the far corner of a shelf on the left wall. It looked the same as any of the other weathered furnishings in the shed—but looks could be deceiving. Reaching for the thicker knife strapped to his right calf, Marcus jammed the flat of the blade between the planks of the ledge, using it as a lever to pry at top of the shelf. With a heave, he pulled off the wooden board that was the countertop, revealing the hidden compartment within.

Sunlight gleamed mutedly off polished steel. Rifling through the compartment, Marcus mentally took stock of the items. The gleaming tip of a narrow, wicked blade. _Stiletto. _A large protruding handle, its arcing finger guard unmistakable. _Cutlass_. Two flat blades, long spools of twine attached at the ends. _Throwing knives_. Lastly, a round wooden stub, engraved with spirals of steel, tapering off to a deadly metal cylinder. _Flintlock._ Marcus sighed with relief. All his equipment was still here, just as he had left them after his last job.

He took the weapons, laying each down upon the floor one by one. These were the tools to his trade, and selecting the right combination for each assassination had become almost a ritual to Marcus. Immediately, he returned the cutlass to storage. It was a crude weapon, meant for open combat; it had no place in a stealth endeavour. The daggers at his sides he removed, replacing them with the single stiletto. Swift, silent, and deadly, as he had to be.

Rightfully, a single dagger was all he really needed; but Marcus knew all too well that the target probably would not be the only person he would have to dispose of. Rolling back his sleeves, he took the throwing knives and strapped one to each forearm. Sliding the fabric back, he looked himself over. There were no bulges, no way to tell the he carried even a single blade unless someone physically patted him down. He smiled in satisfaction.

The flintlock was all that remained. Taking it into his hand, Marcus turned it over, feeling the cool weight of the weapon resting in his palm. It was loud and stored but one shot; worse yet, he had no room to carry extra balls or powder. Nonetheless, after a moment, he slid the pistol into the empty strap at his side.

_Just in case_.

Rising to his feet, the assassin retrieved the faux-countertop from its position on the floor, shoving it back into place with a hard kick. Turning, he stole back out the shed, making sure to shut the door securely behind him. He stepped onto the uneven street, flipping his cowl back over his head to shield his eyes from the Coronan sun.

He had an appointment to make.

* * *

Music was one of the only things the Duke of Weselton still enjoyed. It was his medicine, balm to his worries and sorrows, bringing back to him a taste of his glorious youth—if only for a moment. Caressed by beautiful harmony, the Duke could forget his anger and bitterness. For once, he could just let everything else fade away.

Even so, the presence of the Snow Queen at the concert still befouled his mood. He could espy her, the sorceress and her wicked family, sitting across the auditorium, chattering amongst themselves as the actors pranced about the stage, the orchestra playing on in the background. Not far from them sat the King and Queen themselves, the birthday prince as well, all seeming on such disgustingly friendly terms with the snow witch and her spawn. The Duke's hands clenched at his sides. He forced his eyes back to the performance, trying to keep some semblance of contentment in his heart.

As per the Coronan tradition, the mood of the play was set to the celebration at hand. For the birthday of the Crown Prince, that meant sappy drama bloated with _true_ _love _and _happy endings_. The Duke rolled his eyes at the antics onstage, closing them completely and focusing on the music. At least _it _was still pure and untainted by improbable plotlines.

Suddenly, there was a rustling sound to his left.

"_Hello, Your Grace_," came a harsh whisper in his ear. Jerking away from the voice, an undignified scream halfway out his throat, he whirled to find the hooded face of Marcus Everett smirking at him from the seat behind. Straightening his spectacles with one hand, the Duke made a fist with the other.

"Gah! Stop sneaking up on people like that!" he screeched, recomposing himself. "And off with that dratted _cowl!_"

The assassin's smirk deepened into a sneer. "Oh, I'm sorry, I was under the impression that you _needed_ me to sneak up on someone. To slit his throat, in fact!"

"Sssh!" The Duke grabbed the man by the collar, eyes flitting across the auditorium nervously. "Not so loud, someone could hear you!"

The assassin forcefully removed the Duke's hands from his clothing. "I know the target by sight. I have my blades. I am ready. What are your orders, Duke? When am I to strike?"

The Duke pulled his wrists from Everett's grasp, rubbing them sorely. Glancing around secretively, the old noble leaned in at a whisper. "Tonight. Strike by the cover of darkness. The target's bedroom is located at the third floor of the palace, the last door down the hallway within the west face."

"Yes, but it's the bloody royal _palace_, mate. How am I supposed to even get to the third floor unnoticed?"

The Duke's expression turned sour. "I hired you for a reason, Everett. You've done it before. You can do it again. Meet me at the docks at two of the clock when the deed is finished, and I shall impart upon you your _reward_."

"Pardon me, but how do I know you'll pay up, _Your Grace?_" The assassin's voice held a threatening note.

"My word." Moustache curling in a frown, the Duke fixed Everett with a steely glare. "Now, begone before someone sees us conversing!"

The hooded man seemed on the verge of saying something more. After a moment, Everett merely shook his head, standing and melting away into the shadows.

When he was sure the assassin was gone, the Duke gingerly retrieved the wanted poster from his satchel.

_Marcus Everett. WANTED: Dead or alive. Reward: Two hundred Crowns._

_Dead or alive._

He smiled darkly to himself. _Oh yes, Everett. You'll get your _reward_ soon enough._

Having heard all he needed, another slender figure rose unnoticed behind the Duke, disappearing into the gloom with scarcely a sound.

* * *

_**As always, thank you for reading!**_


	19. By Light of Chandeliers

_**Disclaimer: On Tangled and Frozen: own them, I do not.**_

_**Soundtrack: Two Steps From Hell - "Magic of Love"**_

* * *

**Chapter 19: By Light of Chandeliers**

To Thomas, the Kingdom Dance had not been something to be worried about. Such a recreational affair with the villagers and common people could have done him no further harm than perhaps a few sore limbs. In fact, the lively jig had been surprisingly reminiscent of frolicking about the ballroom back home with his cousins and Olaf in days bygone. In the end, he really had to thank Warner; the day had turned out to be quite the spectacular one.

"_Presenting His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Thomas of Arendelle!_"

Now, however, standing atop the short set of stairs leading down to the polished floor of the ballroom, Thomas was frozen in place by a sudden onset of nerves. The ball wasn't going to be like the other ceremonies of the day. The ball was serious. A long-ago conversation with his mother drifted into his mind.

_"Mother, must we always invite so many people every time we have a party?"_

_ "Well, Thomas, the more the merrier, right?"_

_ "That's not it! Otherwise, why not invite the whole town? But the people at the parties are always in those suits and fancy dresses. Also, the ladies smell funny."_

His mother had ruffled his hair and laughed, making him giggle, too._ "Alright, nothing gets past you! You want the truth? As Queen, I _have_ to invite all those men in suits and funny-smelling ladies. Parties are a chance for important people to meet and discuss things with your father and I."_

_ "What kind of things?"_

_ "Political things."  
"What's a political?"_

His mother had laughed again._ "You'll understand someday…"_

Seven years from his coming-of-age, Thomas understood all too well the concept of _politics_. The ball was but a guise; a mere pretense of enjoyment when, in reality, it was a time for alliances to be discussed, engagements and betrothals to be planned. He looked himself over delicately, making sure his coat was immaculate, his tie straight, the long chain of his pocket watch hanging just right.

The potbellied announcer cleared his throat, reminding Thomas to move down with a stern look. Taking a deep breath, the young prince made for his aunt and uncle, who already stood by their table at the far corner of the room…

...and found himself unable to lift his feet from the floor. Gazing downwards in confusion, he found the hardwood beneath his feet covered in fuzzy tendrils of frost, the ice locking his brogues securely to the ground. _Literally _frozen in place. He thawed his shoes with a frantic wave, eyes flitting left and right to make sure nobody had noticed.

_Now you're getting both overly and _overtly_ worked up about this_, he chastised himself, rolling his eyes.

He sidled up to his aunt just as the next guest was announced.

"_Presenting Her Majesty, Queen Elsa of Arendelle!_"

Thomas watched his mother accept her dance card from the announcer with a gracious curtsey before practically _gliding_ down the steps towards them, posture perfect and regal.

"I've got a long way to go before I can be King, don't I?" he murmured, half to himself. "I can't even strut like one."

"Compared to feistypants here, you are already the _epitome _of grace," his uncle chuckled.

"Hey! At least I don't freeze my feet to the floor!" came his aunt's mock-angry retort.

Thomas grinned sheepishly. "You saw that?"

"Saw what?"

Thomas turned to find his mother already situated to his uncle's other side, smiling wryly at him. The Queen of Arendelle had constructed herself another ice dress for the ball, this one with cascading skirts that barely met the floor, a glittering bodice etched with snowflakes and swirls of frost, and long sleeves sparkling with the tiny beads of ice incorporated into the the fabric. Her hair was done up in an elaborate bun, secured at the top with a pin that appeared to be a shard of ice crystal.

The young prince's aunt voiced his thoughts for him. "Wow, Elsa, you look… amazing!"

Now it was Elsa's turn to smile sheepishly. "You don't think the ice pin is over-the-top?"

Anna grinned. "No, no! It's fabulous! Now all the partygoers will know you in all your Snow Queen glory!"

Elsa laughed. "Well! If you put it thatway..."

"_Presenting His Highness, Prince Joseph of the Southern Isles!"_

Thomas saw the warmth in his mother's eyes vanish in an instant, replaced by a coldness that was reflected both in her abruptly stiff posture and the suddenly frigid air around her. His aunt was at her side in an instant, oblivious to the cold.

"Hey," Anna said, placing a comforting hand on her sister's shoulder. "The past is in the past, right?"

Kristoff nodded his assent to his wife's words. "You made peace with the Southern Isles a long time ago, Elsa. They aren't a problem anymore."

The Queen of Arendelle finally tore her icy stare from the figure of the Prince of the Southern Isles. "Peace is a long way from friendship," she muttered in a low voice.

"Well, if both Kristoff and I can let the past go, then so can you!" the younger sister stated, stamping her foot. "And that's that."

Elsa sighed, her posture softening as she exhaled. The temperature slowly returned to normal. "Well, I suppose you're right." A hint of a smile was back upon the Queen's lips. "As always."

"Wait, if they've started announcing the people from other kingdoms, then where are Chris and Anna?" Thomas asked.

"Exploring," explained his uncle. "Annabeth wanted to get to know all the party guests before the party even starts, and she managed to drag Chris with her."

"Bah! I don't believe it for a second. Christopher just wants to find out where they're keeping the dessert," retorted Anna with a knowing smile.

Elsa laughed. "On the other hand, they _are_ at the age now when they might want to start thinking about… partnerships. And what's a better place to start than a Coronan ball?"

Anna folded her arms, but her retort was cut short by another announcement.

"_Presenting His Grace, the Duke of Weselton!_"

The utter silence that suddenly engulfed the family was thick with tension. For several moments, it was as if the royals had become statues, the snowflakes suspended in the air around the Queen of Arendelle making it seem like time itself had stopped. Finally, Thomas spoke up.

"So _that's_ the guy they were discussing at breakfast?" he commented tentatively, watching the moustached sovereign walk onto the ballroom floor, heels clicking.

"That man _really _should have been succeeded by now," his mother grumbled.

"Then again," Anna speculated, "it's been two decades since you've last seen him in person. Maybe he's changed for the better?" But even she didn't sound quite convinced at her own words.

Elsa raised a weary hand to her forehead, kneading her temple with a thumb. "How old is the Duke now? Seventy? Eighty? I want to fix the situation with Weselton, I truly do, but with that _smarmy_ old man on the seat of power…"

"Stop it, Elsa," Anna commanded firmly. "We're here to _enjoy _ourselves, remember? You can leave the worrying and politics until we're back home."  
The Queen forced a smile. "Thank you sister, but we both know that is not true."

"_And now, your hosts! Presenting His Majesty the King, Eugene Fitz-_"

"Alright, alright. I'm pretty sure all of you know my name well enough, without dear Samuel here shouting it out for you." One could hear the playful smile in the King of Corona's voice. Eugene walked to the top of the ballroom steps dressed in a pearl white suit, an elaborate Coronan sun embroidered above his heart, its golden threaded rays spreading across his chest. The announcer stepped aside, bowing respectfully.

"But, alas, tonight is not about me," the King continued, tone one of mock regret.

Rapunzel's familiar voice of burst from an unseen location. "_Eugene!_"

"No, tonight is not about me at all. Tonight is about my son. Tonight, we dance in his honour. So…" Eugene cleared his throat ceremoniously. "_Presenting His Royal Highness, the devilishly handsome king-to-be, Crown Prince Warner Fitzherbert of Corona!_"

After a slight pause, Thomas watched Warner pop through the ballroom doors in a manner suggesting he had been shoved in from behind. Even while straightening his coat, a flustered blush upon his cheeks, the Crown Prince of Corona still looked handsome and regal, every bit the future monarch. Applause—and many feminine giggles—erupted from the party guests.

"And since tonight is not about me," Eugene continued, "I will not delay you any longer. Let us start the party!"

At the crisp snap of the King's fingers, the before-unnoticed ensemble situated at the far wall of the ballroom began to play. The first selection sounded to be a medium-tempo waltz, the sweet violin contrasting with the rich tones of the tuba. Thomas felt a nudge on his shoulder. He turned to see his mother fixing him with a reminding look. He wilted a little with nervousness.

_Oh. Right. I'm supposed to go ask a lady to dance._

Moving slowly from his table, the young prince saw many other gentlemen doing the same. _At least I'm not the only one… _he thought.

Alas, he couldn't help but notice many of those aforementioned gentlemen were so much_ older_ than he was. After a moment, the young prince found himself to be walking nowhere in particular, his footsteps growing slower and slower in his indecision. His wandering gaze touched upon many older ladies as well, sitting at their respective tables with stiff postures and intricate hairdos, lined faces fixed in masks of scrutiny. Women whom he did not fancy asking to dance for the life of him.

Finally, Thomas' eyes alighted on a female figure of a younger age. Head lowered, curtains of wavy hazel hair framing her face, the girl was sneaking glances at the men walking about the room, chewing at the inside of her lip, apparently just as apprehensive as he was about the situation.

Though the young prince had qualms about being the one to realize this girl's fears, there really was no other choice. Straightening his tie, he took a deep breath, making for the farther table at which she was situated. His heartbeat quickened with his nerves.

Sensing his approach, the girl suddenly looked up, her deep green gaze locking with Thomas'. The young prince stopped his feet a good metre in front of her, frantically searching his memory for how to properly ask a lady to dance.

"Ahem! My lady, may I have this dance?" He extended a hand out towards the girl, bowing for good measure. He was surprised to be answered with laughter. He stood straight once more, raising a bemused eyebrow.

"And who would you be?" The girl's voice was high and melodious, her amusement evident in her intonation. A slight red crept up Thomas' cheeks.

"Oops! How rude of me. I am Prince Thomas of Arendelle." He bowed again, though this time he kept his hand firmly fisted over his chest. When the girl did nothing but widen her eyes, the young prince shifted awkwardly. "And you?" he prompted.

After glancing around, the girl stood from her table and curtseyed. "Princess Iona Westerguard of the Southern Isles." She raised her head, looking him straight in the eye. "My father said to stay away from you. He said you are the son of a sorceress, and have foul magic."

Thomas, taken aback by the girl's bluntness, could not find the words to reply. _Southern Isles! Then that Prince Joseph must be her father! No wonder Mother was so angry at that man…_

But then the princess smiled. "I've never been one to obey orders. So, yes, you may have this dance." She then extended a hand to Thomas, palm down. Still slightly flummoxed, the young prince took Iona's hand and lead her onto the dance floor. After a few moments, he felt the princess give a shiver.

"Whoa, your hand is _cold_," she hissed, yanking her fingers from his grasp and rubbing them for warmth. With a start, Thomas realized he had neglected to put on his gloves. Reaching inside his coat, he found the silken pieces of fabric and pulled them over his fingers with haste.

"Sorry, sorry!" he apologized, raising his now-gloved hands placatingly. "I didn't realize I hadn't my gloves on!"

Iona gingerly replaced her hand in his, though now with obvious trepidation. "Are you sick?" she demanded with a frown. "Why are your hands so cold?"

"Of course I'm not sick!" Thomas exclaimed, regretting the words the instant they left his lips. _What am I doing_? Some unnamed sickness would've been an easy, harmless lie; so much more benign than the dangerous reality…

Flustered as he was, the young prince lost track of his dance pattern, crushing his partner's foot under his shoe just as the music reached a break. The squeal, more of surprise than pain, that burst from the princess had several heads in the vicinity turning in their direction. Thomas suppressed the un-princely urge to curse, cheeks flushing a deeper crimson in his embarrassment.

"Ouch!" Iona hissed through clenched teeth. "Step up your footwork, prince. You're making me look bad!"

"Oh, ha ha, very clever of you," Thomas deadpanned, though secretly grateful for the change of subject. When he found the waltz rhythm again, he tried a different tack. "So, how've you been liking Corona so far?" he asked innocently.

"It's surprisingly cool for the 'Land of the Sun'," Iona replied, leading up to a pirouette.

"Really?" The young prince raised his arm above the princess' head as she spun under his hand. "I'd thought the temperature here to be utterly _sweltering_."

Iona smiled. "Ah, but you've never experienced a Southern Isles summer before. That is true heat. This…" She fanned the air in emphasis. "This is almost refreshing in comparison."

The music reached a lull, prompting them to slow in their dance.

"My turn," said the princess, as they continued to sway. "My father says the winters in Arendelle are harsh and cold. He says it changes people." At this, she leaned in toward his ear, locking eyes with him and speaking in whispers. "That the crown princess and future queen was cursed, cursed with the power of winter unending…" Thomas could feel her breath on his skin.

"You've said a lot about your father," he returned, spinning her around again, suddenly desperate for another change of subject. "What is his business here?"

Iona laughed; a soft tinkling like chimes in the breeze. "Oh, Uncle Joseph isn't my father. That would be King Matthias of the Southern Isles. Father's too busy to come, so he sent one of my uncles in his stead."

"What a coincidence," said Thomas. "My father had to stay home as well. 'Kingdoms don't run themselves,' he said."

"Well, they do say all kings are alike."

"You still haven't really answered my question."

"Nor you mine," Iona retorted wryly. She must have felt Thomas stiffen, because she then laughed again. "Oh, fine, I'll go first. Since you asked what my father is doing _here_, I'll assume you're asking about Uncle Joseph."

The young prince nodded.

"Well, my father told me Uncle is just here to chaperone me, but I think there's something more." Iona glanced around the ballroom before leaning in conspiratorially. "Why else would he have so many soldiers here with him? And why do I not see him for half the day if he's here as my chaperone?"

If Thomas had been curious before, now he was positively intrigued. "Do you think it could have anything to do with the Duke of Weselton?" he asked.

"That may be!" the princess mused. "I've heard that name many times in Uncle's conversations with his men. Why? Who is the Duke to you?"

"It's just that everyone seems on edge about that old man," Thomas replied. "And there's the fact that he once tried have my mother assassinated..."

"Whatever the reasons, Uncle has seemed terribly interested in that Duke of late," Iona agreed. In the background, the music crescendoed, evidently nearing the finale of the first piece. "Now you, prince," the princess pressed. "Is what my father said about the Queen of Arendelle true?"

Thomas paused. _Dare I tell the truth? _he thought to himself._ Mother always said her powers weren't a secret anymore, but by the way she regarded that Prince of the Southern Isles…_

He then realized the true question. _Do I trust her?_ He looked to the princess in his arms; the girl gazing up at him with such quizzical innocence, the light of the chandeliers above reflected in her emerald eyes. Suddenly, there was no longer any doubt in his heart. He took a deep breath.

"Well, yes and no," he began slowly. "My mother was not _cursed_, by any means. But... she does have elemental powers over ice and snow."

For a moment, Iona stayed in thoughtful silence. The waltz wound down in ritardando, the dancers around them slowing in their steps, then freezing in position. Thomas pulled the princess level to his side, unclasping his hands from hers and bowing. He felt Iona do so as well beside him, curtseying deeply. The first dance was over.

As they walked from the dance floor together, Iona finally spoke.

"Forgive me if I find that a little hard to believe, prince." She turned to him, eyebrows knit. "The magic of winter unending? Sounds like a fairy tale."

Thomas just shrugged. "The truth is sometimes stranger than our wildest imaginations."

The princess tilted her head, an almost imperceptible smile touching her lips. She curtseyed again, this time turning to face the young prince. "It's been nice knowing you, Prince Thomas. I hope you enjoy the rest of your night."

Thomas fisted his hand over his heart and bowed deeply. "Likewise, Princess Iona."

Thus prince and princess parted, each going their separate ways for the night. But, though he knew it had merely been a dance, Thomas couldn't stop his wandering gaze from returning time and time again to the figure of the Princess of the Southern Isles. Couldn't stop his heart from leaping when he saw her green eyes gazing back.

* * *

For the Duke of Weselton, balls had lost their pleasure factor a long time ago. Though he would never think of admitting it aloud, the sad truth was, he had _long_ passed the point when he had had any chance at all of entering a romantic relationship with a lady he danced with. In a word, parties such as these were just downright depressing for a bachelor of five-and-seventy years.

But as a politician, the Duke also knew the worth and opportunities of events such as these. Society parties were some of the best places to glean information from visiting dignitaries and members of the upper class. After all, tongues were often so much looser when their owners were upon the dance floor.

Indeed, the ball could very well be his last and _only_ chance to strike a trade deal with the Coronan monarchy, making this party—perhaps even this very _dance_—the most important event of his entire visit to the kingdom.

_That, and the assassination..._ nagged a voice in his head; a voice which he promptly silenced.

The plump announcer in front of the Duke continued to lead him through the throngs of partygoers, stopping at last before a raised dais upon which Queen Rapunzel and King Eugene stood. The Duke breathed a silent sigh of relief at the presence of the Queen; it wouldn't have been quite so proper had he been forced to ask the _King_ to dance…

The announcer bowed before his masters, gesturing to the Duke with a hand.

"Your Majesties, presenting the Duke of Weaselton."

The Duke resisted the sudden urge to strangle the man. "_Wesel_ton. The correct pronunciation is _Weselton_, Your Majesties." He quickly rearranged his expression into what he hoped was a pleasant smile. "And as your closes…" He cut himself off before he used the superlative, clearing his throat to conceal his slip of tongue. _God, I'm getting old and rusty. _"Ahem, _close _partner in trade, it seems only fitting that I offer you a dance tonight, Queen Rapunzel."

He did a slight pirouette, jumping up into the air and clicking his heels together before landing in a bow and extending his hand to the Queen.

For a moment, there was silence. The Duke kept his head bowed for the sake of etiquette. Thankfully, his toupee stayed firmly in place this time. _That's how I ruined it in Arendelle all those years ago,_ the Duke grumbled to himself. _It was all downhill after my toupee came loose…_

Finally, he felt the weight of Rapunzel's hand pressing onto his glove.

"Well, with a man of your obvious dancing skill, certainly!"

Trying to keep his smile from turning crooked, the Duke eagerly lead the Queen through the crowd and onto the dance floor. The next piece had just begun, this a more lively one with violins and trumpets. The Duke grinned. It was a Viennese waltz—his specialty.

"So," he began, giving Rapunzel a twirl, "how's the kingdom's trade going? Doing well?"

The Queen gave the Duke a quizzical look before she was spun around once again. "Yes, sure, you could say that. Why…?"

"Oh, no reason. It's just that, well, maybe you're in need of more supplies, come the winter months."

Rapunzel narrowed her eyes in between steps. "What are you trying to say, Your Grace?"

The Duke entered into one of his special dance moves, strutting around the Queen with his back bent forward, fingers in the air behind his back in the likeness of a peacock.

"Nothing, nothing at all! But say, Weselton could get you _set_ for the winter with a solid coal supply!"

He ended off his Agile Peacock with a pirouette, only to find Rapunzel holding a hand to her mouth as if to stave off her laughter. The Duke briefly scrunched his moustache in displeasure before hastily taking her for a promenade.

"Well, what say you?"

Rapunzel just laughed. "I say your dance moves are very unique, and you are quite agile and peacock-like for a man of your age!"

The Duke restrained himself from scowling. This was not going to plan at all. Sighing, he went for a different approach.

"Look, Your Majesty, these are dire times for my people. Weselton was once a proud nation, but now we are poor and suffering. A trade alliance with the great Kingdom of Corona would definitely be _mutually_ beneficial!" The Duke looked up to the Queen with beseeching eyes. "Give me—give _us _access to your trading network, and I will ensure that the cold never bother your kingdom again. Please, Your Majesty."

At that moment, the music swelled in the background, then stopped altogether in a final flourish. The dance was over.

The Queen fixed the Duke with her sympathetic gaze. "I'll discuss the trade situation with my husband. We'll think about it. I'm sure we can come to an agreement in the future." And with that, Rapunzel disappeared into the crowd, leaving the Duke upon the emptying dance floor, alone once again.

The Duke stroked his moustache in thought, the Queen's parting words resonating through his mind.

_We'll think about it._ A weak, noncommittal phrase. One that held no promises, no binding agreements to speak of.

_I'm sure we can come to an agreement in the future. _Words that held no further purpose than to put an end to the conversation. Empty words. _Useless_ words.

With an angry flick of his coattails, the Duke turned and stormed back through the crowd.

_Drat._

* * *

Sneaking into the royal ball held in honour of the Crown Prince's birthday was far easier than Marcus originally thought. With so many visiting nobles and persons of importance, the assassin had expected the party to be teeming with armed guards hailing from all four corners of the continent. The actuality was far from that expectation; most of the dignitaries had only one or two guards commissioned for the night, and those men always stuck relatively close to their respective charges. That suited Marcus just fine. He wasn't here to kill anyone. No, that would come later.

To be quite honest, however, he couldn't be here for the party at all. Though his long coat and tall stature could pass his silhouette for an aristocratic guest, his ruse would go up in an instant under the bright lights of the ballroom. Besides, the ball held nothing of value to him this night. Tonight, he had an altogether more sinister purpose.

The halls of the palace resided in a veil of semi-darkness, the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling only sparsely lit and emitting a meagre, muted light. The few men that were situated out here were dressed in the garb of the Coronan Royal Guard, strutting atop the marble flooring with blank faces, their footsteps resounding off the walls. Evading them was almost _too _trivial a task; the thud of their heavy boots easily masked the assassin's own footsteps, and the gaps in their rounds were long and uninterrupted. Even so, Marcus employed the utmost degree of stealth in his movements, hugging the walls and slinking into the shadows behind pillars and statues as much as possible. He could not afford to be seen.

To the grand staircase he went, crouching under the brim of the banister until the boots of the guards upon the second floor faded away. A satisfied smile creeping across his face, he swiftly dashed up the marble steps, his soft shoes making neither sound nor mark upon the polished stone.

His expressions of uncertainty to the Duke the afternoon before had been nothing but falsehoods. In truth, there had never been a question as to Marcus' prowess at infiltration. His secret was simple, his method ingenious. He would be at the location of his target long before the target arrived. Men could guard the entrances and windows all they liked; the assassin would already be situated in the building before the guards had even stepped foot in the door. After all, what use was a legion of men when, by the time they were employed, the cutthroat had long since slipped behind their ranks?

Ascending the final stairs to the third floor, Marcus peeked out into the hallway, back against the wall. The guards here were even more relaxed than those on the other two floors, some even making small talk with their companions during their patrols. It was obvious that these men thought their jobs to be redundant on a night such as this. The kingdom had enjoyed prosperity and lack of crime for decades; who could blame them for getting soft and out of practice? And furthermore, what criminal would be dumb enough to even _enter_ the Royal Palace? With such thoughts in mind, the guards marched on, oblivious to the figure slipping down the hall behind them in the opposite direction. Oblivious to how wrong they were.

Turning the last corner, Marcus found the door of his target's evening abode. It was plain for a royal bedroom, just another white wooden slab upon a wall of many. There was only one detail that told it apart from the other rooms: the full suit of armour placed at the side of the doorway, one comprised of a strange translucent material that warped the light.

_Strange_, mused Marcus. _Strange that a visiting prince should bring a _suit of armour _with him…_

Thinking nothing more of it, he turned and crept back down the hall. This section of the palace offered nowhere to conceal himself, and he had espied on his way a conveniently empty guest room in which to hide until the time came. Slipping in, he closed the door, his presence noted only by the resulting draught of air, which quickly settled into nonexistence.

Or so he thought.

By the bedroom door, Sir Gingivere gave a questioning tilt of its head.


	20. Stars Above

_**Disclaimer: To say that I owned anything of either Frozen or Tangled would be a horrible and blatant lie.**_

* * *

**Chapter 20: Stars Above**

Dinner was a much more lively and vigorous affair than breakfast had been. A large part of it was due to the sheer number of people now sitting at the table; indeed, the meal had been located to the enormous banquet hall of the palace in order to accommodate for all the guests. Quite the grand dinner it was, too, the royal kitchens having toiled all day to produce the many delicacies on the menu, the waiters and waitresses whisking nonstop around the long table to serve the many dignitaries and nobles that filled the high-backed seats.

The food was absolutely delicious, of course—as a certain French Seigneur was keen to point out time and time again—but the aromas and tastes were largely lost upon the Crown Prince of Corona. Looking out over what seemed to be a _sea_ of guests, at times Warner could barely find the willpower to swallow. This was the part of the day that he had dreaded most from the beginning. The part of day when he would be stuck on a high chair and forced to calmly eat, while dozens of noble eyes scrutinized him from every angle for the better part of an hour. Not even the ball could compare to this kind of torture.

As the meal dragged on, however, Warner couldn't help but notice one noble in particular who fixed a constant bespectacled gaze in his direction. After a while, the Crown Prince realized the old man was staring not at him, but at his parents seated beside him—the Queen most of all. A memory of that noble dancing with his mother at the ball came to mind.

_The Duke of Weselton. _Yes, that was the man's title.

Warner shook his head, trying to redirect his focus back to his still-full plate. It was such dignitaries who gave him the creeps. Old, scheming men like the Duke, old enough to have grown twisted and cynical in their view of life. From the pages of his history books, it had seemed the world of politics was ruled by such men. Thankfully, the reality seemed to be far more varied, as the assortment of politicians in the banquet hall proved. Nonetheless, the fact that men like the Duke were in charge of whole nations was disconcerting, to say the least.

The Crown Prince's eyes then settled upon the royal family of Arendelle, situated farther down the table. He could make out Anna pointing to and pulling faces at the Duke of Weselton's turned back, to her children's—and even Queen Elsa's—obvious amusement. The sight brought a smile back to Warner's face.

In the end, he had to admit he had quite enjoyed the day. He'd had _fun_ in what seemed like the first time in forever, and made friends in his figuratively and _literally_ magical Arendellian cousins. Furthermore, most of the other visiting dignitaries had turned out to be actually quite benign as well, not so much interested in _evaluating _the future King of Corona's ability as in sharing in the happiness of his anniversary.

_Turns out there was never much to fear, after all_, he thought, chuckling to himself. The sound caught the attention of his mother, who followed her son's gaze with a smile of her own.

"I knew you'd warm up to them," she laughed, abandoning her fork to give Warner's hair a ruffle.

The Crown Prince pushed his mother's hand away, embarrassment colouring his cheeks. "Mama, I'm too old for that!" At that, he would have sworn he saw wetness gleam in Rapunzel's eyes.

"Oh, I know, dear, I know. My son's all grown up now!" The Queen gave a tiny sniff. "But to me, you'll always be that little boy…"

The voice of his father joined in with a laugh. "Alright, alright, that's enough gooey mothering for one night!"

His mother responded with a mock-offended glare, crossing her arms over her chest. "Well, excuse me! I can mother how I want to mother, thank you very much!"

The King rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "You can leave the romantic stuff until the Festival of the Lights, Goldie."

The banquet hall doors behind the royals opened once more, the servants pushing carts laden with desserts this time around. After the cacophonous clinking of plates being served faded away, a fresh bout of praise and sounds of content rose from the guests at the table. Warner looked down to find his half-eaten lobster replaced with a small oval cake, dollops of icing sitting in swirls on top.

"It's fondue cake, if I'm not mistaken," his mother told him with a wink.

The prince needed no further invitation to dig in, ripping a hole in the cake with a fork, soaking the piece in as much of the liquid chocolate that gushed forth as possible, before practically _shoving _the slice in his mouth with unconcealed enthusiasm. To Warner, there was nothing quite so heavenly as the sensation of chocolate-soaked cake upon his tongue, filling his mouth its sweet, _delicious_ flavour.

"This… is absolutely… _marvellous _stuff," he exclaimed between bites.

"Well, it _is _your birthday, after all," smiled his father. "Though from here it looks like you're shovelling mud into your mouth."

"Aw, _Dad! _I'm eating here!"

"I can see that!" the King laughed. At least, in that respect, Warner was far from alone. All of the assembled dignitaries were attacking their desserts with fervor, enjoyment evident upon every face. Even the Duke of Weselton had diverted his piercing stare to the plate in front of him, moustache wriggling comically as he chewed.

_Not much to fear at all,_ Warner laughed to himself, shaking his head.

* * *

The ringing of a fork tapping against the side of a crystal chalice drew everyone's attention to the head of the long table. At the cue, servants poured from the double doors into the banquet hall, clearing away the empty plates and glasses with practiced efficiency. When the noise had quieted to silence, Warner's father rose from his high chair, fork and chalice still in hand.

"So! I hope you've all enjoyed the meal." The King's velvet voice carried easily across the long table. There came nods, applause, and even cheers of assent from the guests.

"I hope also that you've enjoyed your time here in our beautiful Kingdom of Corona!"

More applause, the cheering louder this time.

"And, lastly, I hope your presence hasn't aggravated my dear son too much on his birthday!"

At that deadpan statement, a few uneasy chuckles drifted up from the seated guests. The birthday prince in question hid his face behind his hands, red creeping up his cheeks once more.

_Why, Dad? Why?_

Seemingly oblivious, Eugene grinned, holding up his chalice. "Cheers! Cheers to a prosperous kingdom and a happy birthday prince!"

The sound of ringing chalices and clinking glasses resonated throughout the chamber, accompanied by yet more applause and cheering. After the dignitaries had settled down again, Warner's father placed his glass back down upon the table with finality—a cue for the others to do the same.

"We have one more celebration for you tonight," the King continued. "You probably all know it from your schedules, but I will tell you again: it is the Festival of the Lights. It is perhaps our most… _spectacular _tradition of them all. So, Lords, Majesties, Highnesses, Graces, now is the time to begin making your way from the palace! The ceremony begins in the courtyard, but I recommend going to the bay for the best view." There was a twinkle in Eugene's eyes as, for a moment, his gaze turned to his wife. "Trust me, it's well worth the walk."

With that, the Coronan royals rose. Two uniformed servants pushed open the banquet hall doors in unison, bowing as the King and Queen strode through. Warner tried to copy his parents' regal postures as he followed, the first of the guests trailing not far behind him. As the Crown Prince continued after his parents through the halls of the palace, the dignitaries behind gradually dissipated. Soon, the family's footsteps were the only ones left resounding off the walls.

Finally, they came to the small set of doors leading to the stone balcony overlooking the palace courtyard. Two more servants stood ready at the sides. Seeing the monarchs approach, they opened the wooden doors with a click, revealing the paper lantern emblazoned with the Coronan sun sitting atop a pedestal beyond. The chatter of the assembled crowd below reached Warner's ears—only this time, the bright summer sun was replaced with moonless sky, the night stars shining from above.

But the night was far from dark. As the Crown Prince continued to step forward onto the balcony, he was greeted by a sea of amber light encompassing the courtyard and stretching in a twisting, glowing trail all the way to the bay, where the water mirrored the lights upon the decks of the floating ships. Drawing the match in his coat pocket, Warner turned the object over in his hand. At his side, the Queen stepped to the forward extent of the balcony, her smile just as radiant in night as in day...

* * *

Elsa stood upon the tiled courtyard floor, gazing upwards at the balcony above, her family packed tightly around her. In her arms she held a softly glowing lantern, the flickering flame within already gently tugging it upwards, straining to be let loose into the sky. Everyone else in the courtyard held a lit lantern as well, the effect of the amber lights almost ethereal upon the faces of the crowd.

"Chris, I don't think I can keep hold of these lanterns for much longer…"

_Well, _almost_ everyone_, Elsa thought, looking on her son and nephew with amusement.

"It _burned _me, Tom," Christopher exclaimed, glaring with trepidation at the lantern in his cousin's left hand.

"You weren't holding it right!" scoffed Thomas. "Plus, these are meant to be held with _two_ hands?" He voiced it like a question, gesturing to the people around them—though rather awkwardly, his hands being so occupied.

Abruptly, the hubbub of the crowd died to an almost reverent silence. On the balcony above, the figure of Queen Rapunzel slowly appeared over the railing, her crystal tiara glimmering with the light from the sea of lanterns below. At her side was Prince Warner, a lit match in hand.

"_Visitors and people of Corona! We are gathered here tonight for ceremony of great history and tradition. The Festival of the Lights is an annual event that was started by my father on the night of my birth, over two score years ago. May… may God rest his soul." _The Queen's voice hitched on the last syllable. She took a deep, trembling breath, pressing on. "_The very next night I was kidnapped from my crib by the evil witch Gothel, who needed the power of my magic hair to stay young. My parents searched every corner of the kingdom, but they could never find the tower where Gothel was hiding me. The Festival became a time of mourning, a feeble last hope that the lost princess would someday follow the lights home."_

Rapunzel stopped, eyes glistening. King Eugene crested the railing beside her. "_Feeble as the hope was after eighteen years, one day the lost princess did return_," he continued, picking up the story. "_And although the lanterns were only a small part of the journey, without the Festival of the Lights, the princess_—_my future wife_—_would never have even left that witch's tower._" The King extended his arms in front of him, as if inviting an embrace. "_By the light of these lanterns may we remember that hope and love will forever prevail over greed and evil. May they join the stars above and look over our son, guide him, protect him. May nothing ever take our Warner from us._"

His own eyes gleaming, the Crown Prince stepped up to the lantern at the head of the balcony, inserting his match to the wick underneath. With a flare of light, the lantern ignited from within, slowly drifting from its pedestal and hanging suspended in the air before the balcony. A collective gasp rose from the courtyard, the eyes of the crowd alight with anticipation. Elsa stared transfixed as the flickering light rose into the sky, like a fallen star returning to its place among the heavens.

_As much a symbol of loss as a beacon of hope…_ The thought came unbidden to her mind.

Around her, the people let their lanterns go as well, gently nudging them into the sky where they rose up after the first lone star. The Snow Queen gazed at the lantern in her own hands, its light yet grounded by her grasp.

_May we remember that hope and love will forever prevail over greed and evil._

She looked to her family around her. Anna had already relinquished her hold of her lantern, watching it fly up with a euphoric grin plastered to her face, pinpricks of light reflected in her eyes. Her sister didn't know it yet, but Kristoff was already behind her, arms moments from pulling her into a tender embrace. Beside them, Annabeth giggled as Thomas forced a lantern into Christopher's hand with a resolute shove, though the vainness of the action was quickly apparent as the light quickly floated away into the night. A bittersweet smile touched the Queen of Arendelle's lips.

_Not a day goes by without me being reminded how lucky I am. How far we've come from the storms of the past._

_May nothing ever separate us. May nothing ever take my son from me._

With that silent wish, another lantern rose to the stars.

* * *

Captain Edwards leaned relaxed at the helm, the deck of the _Albatross _below his feet listing gently in the tranquil waters of the bay. The white sails above remained flat and hanging upon the masts, barely moving in the weak offshore breeze. The mainsails stayed furled to the booms—the ship wasn't traveling far tonight.

A great, palpable veil of silence hung over the bay, though the _Albatross_ was far from alone. Around her cruised other vessels of various sizes, ranging from small skiffs and canoes of several people to ships like the galleon itself, decks alive with activity. Dignitaries and common people alike drifted over the water, each with a muted light held parallel to their bosoms. The black, opaque surface of the sea was a starfield, glowing with the reflections of a thousand lanterns waiting to be released into the night sky. From the dark harbour, an amber river of light flowed up through the village, all the way into the courtyard of the palace far in the distance.

_The Coronans sure have their traditions_, the captain thought, looking down at his own flickering lantern with a smile. _I'll give them that._

There was a sudden shift in the atmosphere over the bay. Scattered voices broke the calm, their undertone of excitement boisterous and infectious. A shout went up among Edwards' men, the sailor in the crow's nest gesturing wildly at the towering silhouette of the Royal Palace presiding over the land. Slowly, so slowly, a single point of light rose in the distance, casting its feeble glow over the face of the castle. As the first lantern crested the tip of the great shadow of the palace, suddenly a sea of its kin rose up after it, spiralling and dancing through the air, following the first in a great sparkling mass.

_Like loyal subjects after a king_, Captain Edwards mused. _Like an army after its general._

With a gentle push, his own lantern floated away, gradually drifting up to join its brethren among the stars.

* * *

After releasing his own lantern, Thomas simply stood, gazing up at the thousands of lights receding into the night sky. Like a swarm of fireflies they were, moving as a whole, shining as a whole, but each with its own unique path. Swirling, spiralling, grouping, dispersing, it was as if the lanterns were truly alive, dancing in patterns of their own whim. The sheer scale and magnificence of the festival left the young prince breathless as he watched, transfixed as his mother was beside him—though the perspectives between Queen and Prince could not have been more different.

From as early as he could remember, Thomas had seen beauty in ice. His mother was the Snow Queen, after all; master artist of the winter elements. And thus from childhood the young prince had known the gleaming facets, iridescent statues, and elegant fractals born of his mother's icy magic. Its opposite, fire, however, had never held such a special place in the young prince's heart. Fire hurt; it burned and melted and destroyed, and it didn't help how Thomas had always had to keep Olaf away from the castle fireplaces due to the little snowman's seeming obsession with the heat. But, above all, fire was rogue. The ice was his element; his command, it obeyed. Fire had no such loyalty.

Now, however, standing under the soft amber radiance of a thousand lanterns above, Thomas felt a new truth resonate in his soul. This was fire, too; the gentle fire of a thousand suns, illuminating the night, carrying the hopes of an entire nation to the stars. It seemed that, like the ice, fire was also an element of many faces. Tonight, it was hope—it was _light_. Tonight, the fire was beautiful.

Inexplicably, Thomas' thoughts turned to Princess Iona of the Southern Isles. There had been a fire in her eyes, as well; a burning curiosity and intelligence that had left the young prince helplessly allured.

_You're fourteen_, he chided mockingly to himself. _A little early for romance, yes?_

Apparently, his heart didn't quite agree. When the light of the last lantern finally joined the stars far, far above, Thomas found his eyes glazed and unfocused, his mind elsewhere; wallowing deeply in memories of the ball the afternoon before. The young prince mentally caught himself, the disappearance of the amber lantern light breaking his romantic spell.

_Was this what Aunt Anna felt when she first met Prince Hans? _he mulled, brow furrowing. _And that meeting occurred at a ball, too! Look what became of it!_

But, surely Iona was not one to plan regicide and throne userption! She was innocent, just a young princess, untainted by the past crimes of her uncle... or was she? It was then that, cheeks reddening, Thomas abruptly realized he barely knew the girl at all. One dance—one short, quarter-hour dance was all the experience with her that he had! But why, then, _why_ did he feel so strongly towards that princess?

_What was it Mother said? Rationalize. Never let your emotions dictate your actions._

Advice to help control his magic, yes, but it was sound advice for many other things as well. Alas, asking his mother's advice on this particular front would be unthinkably embarrassing. Unfortunately, that left Thomas with little other option. So, finally, he decided upon indecision; he would wait and see how things played out. See how his heart would change come the light of a new day.

_I'm probably overthinking this, anyway_, he reassured himself, ending his mental debate on the subject.

Around the royal family, the previously packed crowd in the courtyard had begun to dissipate. The spirit of the night was spent, gone with the lanterns in the sky, and the people were returning to their dwellings after a long day. In the village and harbour beyond, the lights behind the windows and upon the ships slowly winked out, casting darkness over the kingdom like a heavy blanket of lethargy and slumber. Thomas rubbed his eyes, suddenly all too aware of his own fatigue. Beside him, Christopher gave a gaping yawn.

With a wordless smile, Elsa guided her sleepy family back through the palace gates. The guards at the doors bowed them through, vigilant as ever despite the hour. Thomas, however, remembered little their journey to the third floor, tired as he was. The young prince briefly recalled bidding his aunt and cousins goodnight, before trudging the final distance of marble flooring to his own bedroom at the end of the hall. Sir Gingivere was there, a silent sentinel standing motionless at the doorway, as he had evidently been for the duration of the night. The young prince called a greeting.

"Hello, Master Thomas," the knight returned politely. "I trust you had an eventful day."

Thomas gave a tired smile. "It was quite fun, but I now feel like my eyelids have weights attached to them!" He stifled a yawn with a hand to his mouth. " I'll… I'll be off to bed, now. Goodnight!"

But, before he could push through the door into his bedroom, Sir Gingivere moved into his path. The young prince gave his guardian a confused look.

"Sorry to keep you, Thomas, but there is something that you must know." The knight's voice held a serious tone—serious enough for Thomas' retort to die on his lips. "There was a man here, a few hours ago, traipsing through this very hall."

"Probably just some lost ball guest," the young prince put off groggily. "The palace is a big place! Now, let me sleep."

But the suit of armour did not budge. "He was no _guest_, Master_._ The man's attire was hardly befitting of a partygoer, and he moved like a thief! No aristocrat knows how to melt into the shadows in that manner!"

Thomas sighed. "Fine, if it makes you feel any better, post a guard at the door," he conceded wearily. "The _two_ of you ought to be enough to protect me. I appreciate your concern, Sir Gingivere, but it's probably nothing to be worried about."

The knight bowed his head ever so slightly. "The last time I thought like that, you were almost lost to be forever."

At that, the young prince's shoulders slumped a little. "I'll be fine, Sir Gingivere. Now, goodnight."

After a pause, Sir Gingivere finally let him through with a nod. "Goodnight, Master Thomas."

Entering his bedchamber, Thomas quickly undressed and slipped into his bedclothes. Tired as he was, he abandoned his pre-bedtime routine and fell straight atop the mattress, barely finding the strength to pull the covers to his chin before all energy left his body entirely. The veil of sleep already quickly descending upon him, he vaguely heard heavy footsteps beyond the door. His guard had arrived. Feeling safe and content, the young prince closed his eyes, a smile upon his lips.

The church bells tolled midnight from afar. Thomas didn't hear them. He was already fast asleep.


	21. Shadows

_**Disclaimer: I neither own nor will I ever own Frozen or Tangled.**_

_**Soundtrack: "Order of the Assassin" - ACIV OST**_

* * *

**Chapter 21: Shadows**

Under the pale face of the moon, the Duke of Weselton stole through the night. Four of his Ducal Guards followed after him, their conspicuous crimson uniforms masked with dark grey overcoats, which also served to conceal the loaded crossbows the men carried on their backs. They stepped with ginger care, the guards' boots barely seeming to graze the cobblestone street, and thus the usual crisp click of their passage was replaced with an almost ghostlike silence as they slunk through the slumbering village. The Duke smiled wickedly to himself—for all intents and purposes, it was as if they were never even there at all.

The street ended, spilling out into the open air of the bay, the patterns of cobble beneath changing to those of smoother brick and concrete. The harbour lay before them, entrenched in darkness, the moonlight the only source of illumination across the endless obsidian sea. A cool breeze blew past the Duke from behind, ruffling his coattails and bringing a brief respite to the Coronan heat, which roasted him even now despite its fiery mistress having long gone to sleep in the western hills.

The guards, too, were evidently cooking in their layers of clothing, wordlessly wiping sweat from their slick brows. Nevertheless, they made neither sound nor gesture of complaint. The Duke nodded with satisfaction. These were his best men, the most capable and trustworthy of his Ducal Guard. Utterly loyal and obedient, they asked no questions, demanded no explanations—they simply served their duty. Even when that duty was far from the normal boundaries of guardianship.

Giving a swift gesture with a hand, the Duke watched his men scatter among the piers and melt away from sight. He smiled again. To assassinate an assassin; poetic justice in its finest form. Raising his gaze to the towering form of the palace in the distance, the Duke folded his arms over his narrow chest. All that was left now was to wait.

* * *

The guest room was a bland little thing. Consisting of several old shelves, a nightstand, and a small, meagre bed, it had obviously been left unused due to its lack of both space and flair. Nonetheless, the chamber was dusted and perfect like every other room in the palace, and had been for a while. There was no need for any servant or housekeeper to so much as open the door, and even if one had—just for a look—all he or she would have found would have been a space encroached in shadow, utterly untouched and uninhabited.

Alas, in this instance, looks were quite deceiving.

Marcus Everett was a patient man. The passing of time never affected him as much as it seemed to other men and, in an unsavoury world, the assassin often found his own company to be the best. Thus, crouched in the farthest corner of the guest room, hidden in the void behind a shelf, Marcus waited. He waited until the lanterns in the outside sky had all burned out, leaving just the light of the moon and stars casting their radiance through the window. He waited until all the sounds of feet upon the marble halls beyond the door had faded into the deep silence of slumber. He waited until the chandeliers had burned low, casting all the palace in a final shroud of darkness.

A single bell tone cut through the still night. The assassin smiled. The time had come at last.

Slowly turning the brass handle, cracking open the door, he first turned an ear out to the hall. When he was met with nothing but heavy silence, the assassin carefully eased the door wide. The hinges were well oiled, he already knew, but there was no sense in taking needless chances. Slipping from his place of hiding with the fluid motion of a snake from its den, Marcus quietly replaced the door behind him before starting down the hall at a stealthy half-crouch.

Evidently, there weren't many guests sleeping on the third floor, as Marcus espied not a single guard stationed at any of the white wooden doors he passed.

_Or, maybe the dignitaries just all think they're safe and sound in this big castle of theirs_. The assassin refrained from laughing at the irony, settling instead for a sardonic shake of his head. _Let's see what they think after tonight._

The hallway ahead bent at a right angle, turning the final distance to Marcus' destination. The assassin inched sideways to the corner, back hugging the wall, tentatively tilting his head out to take a glance down the dark hall. The doors here were just as unguarded as in the hallway before—excepting the last one down, that was. The peculiar suit of armour was still stood by the doorframe of the Crown Prince's bedroom, but now beside it was situated a clean-shaven man in a dark grey uniform, the gleaming, unmistakable handle of a short sword sticking from his belt. A guard.

Marcus jerked his head back, silently cursing his luck. Out of all the dignitaries, out of everyone in the palace, the _one person_ he had to kill this night was the only one with a personal guard assigned to him. Naturally, the assassin's suspicions were instantly aroused. Could someone have alerted his target to the impending threat? It was certainly a possibility; his meeting with the Duke earlier that day in the theatre had not been held in an exactly _covert _location, and thus may well have been overheard.

_But, then again, if the people from Arendelle know about this, wouldn't they do a lot more to protect their precious crown prince than just posting a single guard? _The facts did not add up. Unless…

Unless it was a ploy. Unless the real Crown Prince of Arendelle was sleeping peacefully in another location, and there was nothing behind that white door except empty bedsheets and a dozen more guards lying in wait. It took all of Marcus' self-control to refrain from growling in frustration. He was deep within the Royal Palace itself, mere metres from his target's bed, poised to strike, yet now he had come to a deadly impasse. The one guard ahead wouldn't be much of an obstacle for a man of the assassin's combat prowess, but should there be more men in ambush, he would most certainly meet death upon the point of a sword. However, if he backed down now, the Duke would almost certainly send _his _own men after Marcus to silence a loose end. Even should he manage to escape, five thousand Crowns would have slipped from his fingers.

_There is death both ways_, the assassin thought bitterly. _But one path has a pot of gold at the end if I succeed._

In the end, it wasn't a hard choice. Marcus took another glance around the corner. The guard was still there, appearing surprisingly awake and alert for the late hour. The assassin weighed his options. He could simply kill the guard here and now, but that would alert the man's accomplices, should he have them.

_A passive tactic, then._

Marcus slid one of the dirty steel rings from his fingers. Fisting it in his other hand, he drew his arm back, then whipped it forward. The small metal projectile flew down the hall in the other direction, knocking against the far wall before falling to the ground with a clear _ping_.

At first, there was only silence. Then, whispers drifted to the assassin's ears.

"_What was that?_"

"_Allow me._"

Two voices. So, there was more than just the one guard, after all. But there was little time to contemplate the new information. Heavy footsteps pounded down the hall toward where Marcus' ring had landed. The assassin pressed himself into the wall, holding his breath. The sounds of the guard's feet passed by his position without pause. Marcus tried to catch a glimpse of the man as he walked past, but all he could make out was a silhouette in the dark corridor. The guard was _big_, that much was clear.

The assassin stuck his head back around the corner. That same guard was still there, but… the spot on the other side of the door was completely vacant! Marcus blinked. He would have sworn there had been a full suit of armour there not a minute ago…

The guard's wandering gaze locked with his.

_Shite._

With a swift snap of his arm, the assassin flicked a throwing knife into his palm. The dull grey blade pinwheeled through the air, embedding itself deep into the guard's chest before a cry could pass his lips. Marcus leapt forward, catching the guard's body even as it fell, closing a hand over the man's mouth to stifle his dying groan. He eased the body to the ground, retrieving his blade from the guard's chest with a tug, cleaning it on the man's uniform and replacing the knife back in his sleeve. The other guard would return at any second. It was now or never.

Rising to a stand, Marcus stepped around the growing pool of blood on the marble floor, reaching over and testing the door handle. It was unlocked. The assassin quickly slipped into the bedroom, stiletto already in hand.

No one met him on the other side.

His eyes flitted over the interior of the chamber. Here was a bedroom truly fit for royalty. The floor was covered in soft carpet, the furniture richly upholstered, the light drapes hanging before the window translucent wisps in the moonlight. The assassin's rigid combat stance relaxed. There was an atmosphere of peace and rest in the chamber; inexplicable, yet unmissable. Without any lingering doubt, he knew this was no trap, no ambush, even before his gaze settled upon the bed.

The Crown Prince of Arendelle lay fast asleep amid the bedsheets, blissfully unaware of the fragility of his survival. Marcus slowly approached the bed, dagger clutched tightly in his right hand. The boy's face was even more agonizingly innocent up close, almost cherubic in the soft glow of the moon. His features still held youthful roundness, but the solid contours of adulthood were already evident in their emergence. Here was a boy becoming a man—a boy on the very cusp of his youth. The assassin raised his blade, only to find his hand shaking.

_I can't do it_.

Marcus clenched his teeth at the realization, sweat beading upon his forehead. He fiercely clenched the handle of his stiletto, knuckles turning white with the effort.

_Curse the Duke! Blast his cruel heart!_

_Curse this weakness of _my_ heart!_

The prince twitched in his sleep, giving a small sigh. The sound was enough to snap the assassin from his internal conflict. The other guard was surely returning. This was not some philosophical debate; this was a bloody question of life or death! The boy—no, the _target_ lay unconscious beneath his blade. Five thousand Crowns, his for the taking for just one little turn of the wrist…

He closed his hand tightly over his target's mouth, the glinting blade of the stiletto already at the prince's throat. The boy mumbled through Marcus' fingers, groggily trying to pry them from his face.

_Good. He won't feel the pain. Much._

The assassin applied pressure to the dagger. Rivulets of scarlet flowed from the boy's— the _target's_ porcelain skin, staining the pristine white pillow beneath. The prince's eyes finally opened, widening, filling with panic and fear.

_Sorry, mate_, Marcus apologized silently, teeth gritted._ But a job's a job_.

From outside came the thudding of impossibly heavy footsteps. Then, the door exploded.

* * *

"Good evening, Spymaster."

"Highness."

"A beautiful night, don't you agree?"

"Seems so."

A pause.

"I take it you were successful?"

"I am always successful."

"That wasn't my question."

"I have what you need, of course."

"Well?"

"The Duke is the employer."

"So the slimeball is at it again. What a surprise."

"He has plans to betray his assassin."

"Oh? Elabourate."

"He prepares to kill Everett and collect the reward on the man's head."

"And squirm himself back into Queen Elsa's good books in one fell swoop, no doubt. Two birds, one stone."

"Doesn't seem unlike him."

Another pause.

"Tell me, Spymaster, do you think the assassin is up to the task?"

"Of what? Killing the son of the Snow Queen?"

"What else?"

"Yes. Yes he is."

Heavy silence.

"She will blame us for the assassination."

"Probably. Especially if the Duke silences Everett."

"There is nothing more fearsome than the rage of a mother, Jericho. She will annihilate us."

"Without a doubt."

Nothing but the faint whistling of the breeze.

"So there is only one thing to do, then."

"Do tell, Highness."

"We must capture Marcus Everett."

* * *

Thomas lay amidst soft bedsheets, dead to the world in his slumber. His rest was deep and peaceful, the turbulent waters of the dreamworld left utterly unvisited by his fatigued mind. He merely drifted blind through clouds of perfect content, happy to leave both his body and brain to recuperate after a long and eventful day.

Suddenly, something pierced the veil, poking at his awareness. A sensation upon his face; the touch of coarse, calloused skin on his own. Instinct dragged his consciousness from thick layers of incapacitating sleep, forcing the young prince awake with an unshakeable sense of unease.

_Go away… _Thomas thought, twisting his head in an attempt to be rid of the disturbance. _Let me sleep._

But the hand persisted, its grip upon his jaw increasing in pressure. Annoyance flared in Thomas' muddled mind. His own hands rose of their own accord, prying at the offending fingers pressed to his cheek.

_Leave me alone_, he tried to say, but the hand was covering his mouth, and nothing but garbled mumbling made it past the suffocating palm. He shook his head this way and that, but to no avail.

A new sensation. Something cold and smooth, resting on the skin of his neck. Cold and _sharp_, pressing against his throat, _cutting_ intohis skin, and it hurt, it _hurt…_

The drunkenness of sleep sloughed from Thomas in an instant. His eyes snapped open, taking in the dark, hooded figure looming over him. One of its hands still clamped firmly over his mouth, and in the other the young prince could make out a glint of steel in the faint moonlight. Where annoyance had been only moments before, fear now flooded into its place in Thomas' mind—a primal terror so powerful it threatened to consume him utterly.

That was a dagger at his throat, already red with his own blood.

He was going to die.

The fear was like a cinder burning at his core, too hot to be contained. His heart pounded against his chest; his breath came fast and staccato in his panic. He could feel the ice in his bosom, the upwelling of dangerous magic, begging for release.

For once, he loosed the reins, screwing his eyes shut. The power leapt from his body, cascading outward in a frigid wave. He felt the bedding harden as it frosted and froze around him, heard the crackling of the racing ice, felt the air of the room become bitterly cold.

_Please, please do _something.

To his surprise, the young prince felt both hand and blade abruptly leave his skin. Simultaneously, there came deafening splinters of wood, groans of twisting steel.

_Splintering wood?_

Thomas' eyes opened in confusion. Where once soft bedsheets had covered his body, now wicked spears of ice thrusted outward from him, encasing him in a protective cocoon from the chest down. But that had not been the reason for the assassin's sudden retreat.

In what remained of the doorway stood Sir Gingivere, the doorknob crushed in one icy fist like so much tinfoil. The wreckage of the door lay in pieces at the knight's feet. For a brief moment, the suit of armour stood frozen, visor fixated at Thomas—at the scarlet that still oozed from his charge's neck. Then, with inhuman speed, the knight whirled to face the hooded intruder. Sword slid from scabbard with a dull ringing of ice.

No expression showed through the empty helmet; no words emanated from beyond the visor. Methodically, mercilessly, the icy guardian bore down upon the assassin, swinging his blade with force enough to rend steel. And rend it did. The hooded man had sunk to a half-crouch, raising his own dagger in an attempt to deflect the blow. But the stiletto was no match for the icy sword. The brittle blade of the dagger shattered with the impact, shards of metal falling to the bedroom floor.

However, the intruder would not be defeated so easily. With surprising swiftness of his own, the hooded figure rolled under Sir Gingivere's following swing, deftly leaping to his feet when he had passed out of range of the knight's blade. Rising, the intruder swept back his arm, and Thomas saw the glint of yet another blade slide from the sleeve and into the assassin's hand.

As if sensing Thomas' gaze, the intruder turned his hooded head toward the young prince—and froze. The assassin took a small step back, staring and staring at the hundred daggers of ice erupting from Thomas' bed. As if only then noticing the cold, the man gave the slightest of shivers.

_He doesn't know_, Thomas realized with a start. _He doesn't know I have magic._

Alas, even facing the supernatural, the dogged agent of death would not be dissuaded. Reorienting himself with a shake of his head, the assassin turned to meet Sir Gingivere's relentless attack. Ducking under his adversary's lunge, the intruder aimed a vicious kick at the knight's back, using the guardian's own momentum to unbalance him. The suit of armour crashed to the floor with a mighty thud, momentarily disabled as he fought to get his heavy body back on its feet.

The assassin wasted no time. Hooded eyes glaring straight at Thomas, the man snapped back his arm, knife held at the tips of two fingers. The young prince's eyes widened.

_He means to throw it!_

But, in that final moment, the intruder's hand gave a little tremor.

_He fears me! _realized Thomas._ He fears what I can do._

An inexplicable sense of power overcame him. In that instant, the young prince made a decision He wasn't afraid anymore.

This would not be the night of his death.

Thomas raised his own hand, brow furrowed in concentration. A blinding bolt of pure magic flew from his fingertips, fuelled not by fear, but by grim determination. The blast arced through the air, impacting the throwing knife before it could leave the assassin's hand, the blue-white energy crackling up the length of the blade like cold lightning. The knife shattered, frosted shards flying asunder. The man screamed in agony, clutching at his arm, the fingers of his left hand quickly turning a sick, frozen blue.

Weaponless, defenseless, the crippled assassin could only watch as Sir Gingivere methodically rose to his feet, striding toward the intruder with translucent sword raised for the kill, each footfall a peal of thunder.

At least, the assassin had _appeared_ to be weaponless.

But, finally abandoning his injured arm, the man reached into the folds of his long coat. In his other hand, he produced a long metal contraption, carved steel flaring at the end like some miniature trumpet. With a last defiant glare, the assassin faced Sir Gingivere, leveling the device at the knight.

"_Fuck this_," the man spat.

A deafening bangreverberated off the bedroom walls. Thomas saw Sir Gingivere knocked off his feet by an invisible force, collapsing to the floor, sword sliding from his grip with a dull _thump_. Whirling to the decimated doorway, the young prince found nothing but a cloud of acrid smoke. The assassin was gone.

Finally mustering the courage, Thomas leapt from the bed, running to the side of his felled guardian. A spiderweb of fractures surrounded the smoking hole in the knight's breastplate. For a moment, the young prince feared his creation to be dead. He placed his hand upon Sir Gingivere's helmet, a single tear sliding down his cheek.

But no. The living magic within the ice still burned bright; he could feel it. The knight was not dead, merely damaged. Wiping the moisture from his eyes, Thomas turned his gaze to the wound in Sir Gingivere's chest. Having modeled his creation from a suit of armour, the young prince had not made the knight's body to be completely solid—there were cavities in the torso and limbs where a person could theoretically fit. The blast from the assassin's device had punctured the icy armour, but it hadn't been able to do so twice. The projectile still sat within the chest cavity, embedded inside Sir Gingivere's back armour.

Before Thomas could completely make sense of it, however, the air of the bedroom suddenly became utterly frigid. Frost arced across the walls, flurries of snow landing upon the young prince's face and shoulders. He whirled to find his mother standing in the doorway still in her bedclothes, flanked by what seemed to be the entire Royal Guard, her face twisted in an expression of fear and outright panic. The Snow Queen's ice blue eyes flitted about the chamber, growing impossibly wide as they took in the devastation before her. The icy cocoon that had become of the bed. The shards of metal littering the floor. The line of oozing scarlet upon her son's neck, so, _so _close to his throat...

From behind Thomas, four stark words drifted from Sir Gingivere's empty helmet.

"The assassin must die."

* * *

Marcus fled. He abandoned stealth entirely, bolting through the awakening halls of the palace, flying down the grand banister, his breath heaving, his shoes a frantic pitter-patter upon the marble flooring. In his right hand he clutched his last throwing knife, knowing all too well how scant his defense was, how quickly he would fall if the guards caught up to him. His left hand was stiff and unmoving, the skin an unnatural purplish-blue, the agony within burning so cold the assassin felt as if his very bones had turned to ice.

_What if they did? _Horror swept through Marcus at the thought. Who knew what his target, that _child sorcerer_ had done to him!

Raised voices carried to the assassin's ears. The clop of heavy boots behind him grew steadily louder, bearing down upon his position. Marcus breathed a small sigh of relief. No sound of _its _footsteps. The implacable knight of ice wasn't coming for him. Not yet.

But he wouldn't be any less dead should the royal guards get him.

He spurred his legs onward, eyes fervently searching for a route of escape from the endless halls that had become his death trap. The front gate offered no escape. The courtyard exits were bound to be straddled by royal forces. His only possibility of eluding the guards lay in the unorthodox.

_I need an exit that isn't an exit._

_The outer wall._

The assassin bounded from the staircase, racing through the second floor. There it was, a narrow iron door, shut but not bolted. Marcus shouldered through, barely stopping to turn the handle, bursting out onto the parapet full tilt. He was in plain view of the courtyard now, and sure enough, several crossbow bolts immediately whizzed over his head. Thankfully, there was no staircase up to the perimeter wall from below, which meant the guards couldn't get to him. Not quickly, at least.

The sloped roofs of village houses lay on the other side of the wall, tantalizingly close. Still, Marcus ran on; he couldn't risk breaking his legs should his jump fall short. Finally, at the foot of the parapet edge sat a house with nary a space between it and the palace wall. Without even pause to catch his breath, the assassin took a flying leap, landing hard upon the rough tiles of the roof. Scrabbling to keep his balance, taking ginger care not to further injure his left hand, he slid to the cobbled street, cannoning away without a backward glance.

The village was deathly silent, evidently yet oblivious to the happenings within the Royal Palace. As he ran, Marcus went through his meagre list of options in his mind. Going back to his employer was unthinkable; there was no reason for the Duke to even allow him to continue to live, much less protect him. Running for the forest was a more viable course, but safety in the wilderness unfortunately lay on the other side of the palace, where guards no doubt choked every street.

_The harbour, then. _The night was still deep, the offshore breeze strong. If he just kept away from that Duke and his men, he would be free to escape to the mainland…

_Thunk!_

An arrow whipped past the assassin's face, embedding itself into the building beside him. He risked a look over his shoulder. The bowman was loading his next arrow, the four guards that accompanied him already sprinting down the street toward Marcus, swords glinting under the moon. The assassin desperately commanded his legs to pump, but his muscles were running on acid, limp and screaming with exhaustion.

He tripped over a loose tile in the street. He thudded to the ground, panting, sweat streaming from under his hood. Through blurring eyes, he saw the four men grow ever larger, their forms finally towering over his body, their four blades tickling his chin. The assassin closed his eyes, letting his knife roll from his fingers. He was defeated.

A faraway scream. Shouts of surprise. Strangled gurgles. The meaty smack of four bodies hitting the street.

Marcus cracked his eyes open once more. The felled forms of the royal guards lay around him, chests slowly rising and falling—unconscious, but alive. The assassin turned a bemused gaze upwards. Expressionless white-clad men surrounded him, each holding a narrow piece of wood in their gloved hands.

_Blow darts._

The crunch of boots on cobble slowly grew closer. A new figure came into view, tall and slender; one strangely, unplaceably familiar. The boots came to a rest mere centimetres from the assassin's head.

"Who—who are you…" Marcus breathed, twisting his neck to get a better view of his mysterious saviour.

The figure bowed lightly, face briefly illuminated by pale moonlight. Tanned skin, wizened with more than age. A slight, dark beard framing thin cheeks. A wry twist of the mouth that may just have been a smile.

"I am the Spymaster."

Then everything went dark.


	22. Bitter Tides

_**Disclaimer: Frozen and Tangled are property of Disney.**_

* * *

**Chapter 22: Bitter Tides**

The sun did not rise the next morning. The sky grew lighter in tinge, but it was a subtle change that did nothing to brighten the dreary, brooding grey stretching to the horizon. The clouds never wept in summer, not in the Kingdom of Corona; but this day, weep they did, spilling forth a cold drizzle more mist than rain, casting the village in a damp shawl of misery.

Had it been any other day, the villagers would undoubtedly have been complaining about the drab landscape that had so abruptly become of the vibrancy of the day before. But this grey morning, many awoke to the stern faces of royal guards glaring down upon them and trembled under their unrelenting interrogation. Dwellings had been scoured in the night, pubs turned upside down. Word spread like wildfire, dark rumours of the happenings mere hours before. A knife in the Royal Palace, many said; an assassin whose target was a visiting prince. Not just any prince, however—the son of the legendary Snow Queen of Arendelle.

_We are lucky to not be thigh-deep in snow, freezing to death from her mother's wrath_, some whispered._ After all, she's cursed a kingdom before…_

In that light, a mere drizzle was practically a blessing.

The palace itself was in chaos. Upon word of the attempted murder, many of the visiting dignitaries had seen fit to return to their homelands—immediately. The wee hours of the morning had seen ship after ship spewing from the harbour, fleeing into the darkness like rats from a flame, sails open to their full capacities. The dull light of day saw the palace empty and lifeless, despair and fear looming in the halls like disembodied wraiths, though evidence of the _event _had long since been erased. The room had been swept, the blood scrubbed from the marble, the bedding changed. Only the mutilated doorway remained, the gaping hole in the wall that stood testament to the deadly struggle the night before.

At the sixth toll of the bells, both banquet halls lay in pristine desolation. All the dignitaries who remained were congregated in the council chamber, the concentric tables scantily occupied with solemn-faced nobles, many of them wiping sleep from weary eyes. At the centre sat the monarchs of Corona, faces unnaturally sombre as they addressed the room.

"We are gathered this morning to address a situation," Eugene began, voice low and serious. "A heinous crime was committed in this palace last night, a crime for which no punishment is too harsh. It saddens me immensely that our peace should be broken so violently, that our happiness should be so suddenly taken. But the crime stands before us. We must take action to make sure such a thing can _never _happen here again."

Elsa gingerly brought her cup of tea to her lips. She glanced at her family around her. They were here in body, but it was as if the vigour had been utterly sucked from them. Kristoff's massive shoulders were hunched, his stare unfocused. Her niece and nephew seemed almost confused, looking around the chamber as if mildly curious; but with none of their usual energy. Even Anna, usually so radiant and boisterous, slumped dejectedly in her chair—though she gave her sister her best façade of cheerfulness when she sensed Elsa's gaze. The older sister smiled back, hoping the expression wasn't as fake as it felt.

"At approximately one of the clock past midnight," Eugene continued, making eye contact with everyone present, "an attempt was made on the life of Prince Thomas of Arendelle." The King of Corona gestured to the young prince, who shrank a little into his seat under the sudden weight of a roomful of stares.

Elsa restrained herself from comforting her son. The dignitaries had to see that Thomas was strong, even in the face of calamity. Even after brushing with death's blade. Even with the red scar still fresh upon his skin.

"The assassin stabbed to death the Arendellian guard at Prince Thomas' door, and was only thwarted by the efforts of another guard, who managed to drive the intruder away."

The guard's young, strong features, skin so pale, so cold. Open eyes, the life behind them long gone. Crimson staining his grey uniform, crimson trickling from the corner of his mouth, crimson pooling under the body upon the marble…

She would send letters, of course, words of comfort and condolence to the man's loved ones—but the Queen of Arendelle knew it would do little to heal the wounds in their hearts. Nothing could make him any less dead.

_How many more will fall protecting my son? _Elsa shuddered at the unbidden thought.

The King produced a drawing of a scarred, unkempt man, holding the parchment up for all to see. "Though we do not know for sure," Eugene stated, "it is suspected that this man, a rather notorious assassin by the name of Marcus Everett, was responsible for these crimes."

A gruff voice rang out from the other side of the chamber.

"So ask him!"

The speaker was none other than Lord Bray, leaning back in his chair as if the solution to the matter were very simple indeed.

Elsa refrained from rolling her eyes at the man. _He always did seem to be the oblivious type…_

But Bray wasn't finished. "There is not a criminal on this Earth who can hold out indefinitely against torture. And with Queen Elsa's presence, I'll bet the beans will spill quite quickly!"

The queen in question gritted her teeth to quell the flare of anger in her bosom. _Oblivious _and _callous._

Eugene, however, sagged under the words as if they were physical blows.

"Unfortunately, we do not have Marcus Everett in our custody," the King sighed. "The Royal Guard… have not been able to find and capture him."

For a moment, there was silence. Then, an accented voice pierced the calm.

"Ze assassin is still on ze loose!?"

The assembled dignitaries exploded like a hive of agitated bees.

"Who knows who Everett's next target is!"

"It could be any one of us!"

"Just look at how easily he killed that guard!"

"None of us are safe here! Not with that murderer on the loose!"

"We should have returned home like the others!"

Queen Rapunzel's sharp cry cut through the panicked hubbub.

"People. _People!_"

The dignitaries fell silent, some still seeming on the verge of bolting from their chairs, others looking down abashedly.

Rapunzel took a deep breath. "From what we know, Marcus Everett is a _hired _assassin. Yes, we must find and punish him, but the real murderer is the employer. Who would have such a powerful vendetta against Thomas…" The Queen looked to Elsa. "...against _Arendelle_ to send someone to kill the Crown Prince? What was their motive?"

A tide of turning heads swept through the chamber. In less than a moment, all eyes present were boring into two particular dignitaries: the Duke of Weselton and Prince Joseph of the Southern Isles.

Elsa's own eyes widened in surprise. Was knowledge of what had happened after her coronation _two decades ago _this widespread? With interested disdain, she leveled her own scrutinizing glare at the two men.

The Duke had immediately become as jumpy as a squirrel under so many stares, fidgeting and shrinking behind his two bodyguards.

"_I am an honourable man!_" he yelled from his human fortress, moustache twitching."_How dare you make such accusations against me!_"

Prince Joseph, on the other hand, was completely unperturbed. He sat with cold composure, an eagle among pigeons, feathers preened and unruffled, the pointed words of the crowd bouncing off of him without leaving a mark. Sensing Elsa's gaze, the prince turned his head ever so slightly in her direction. Their eyes met, and the corner of Joseph's mouth tilted up in a lopsided smile. A smile that never reached his green-flecked eyes.

_Elsa! You can't run from this!_

The Queen of Arendelle shivered.

_That face. That smile._

She lifted her china cup from its saucer, taking a slow sip. Even the sweet tea could not wash away the foul taste in her mouth.

This time it was the King of Corona's voice that halted the ruckus.

"_Gentlemen! _Now is not the time to point fingers!"

Eugene waited until the assembly was quiet once more. "We're here to decide a course of action. Sure, some of us may have certain misgivings and _suspicions_…" The King glanced at the Duke and the Prince of the Southern Isles. "But we cannot make any judgements before we've gone through all the evidence."

"And what evidence is there?"

The voice was cool velvet; soft, but with an undertone of steel. Surprised pairs of eyes turned to Prince Joseph, who merely continued to gaze intently at the King.

_Your sister is dead! Because of _you!

Elsa closed her eyes, wincing at the stark memory. He was too much like _him._ Far too much like him.

Eugene beckoned to a servant stationed behind him, who stepped forward and placed a polished wooden box upon the tabletop. The King slid a thin key into a narrow opening below the lip of the lid, turning his wrist, opening the container with a click. He flipped the box so the assembly could view its contents.

"These are the knife shards that were found in Prince Thomas' guest room after the attack." The King lay the pieces of metal out upon the table, before reaching back into the box and producing a small iron ball.

"And this," said Eugene, holding up the item, "is a bullet from the assassin's pistol."

"Pardon me," interjected the Duke's reedy voice, "but how did the assassin manage to get his knife shattered in the first place, hmm?" The old man's bespectacled gaze was fixed steadily upon Thomas, as if he already knew _exactly _how things had played out.

The King raised an eyebrow. "Well, Prince Thomas' guard was so determined to protect him that he broke the attacker's knife with his sword. He has a mean swing, that one." The more easygoing members of the assembly gave scattered laughter at the statement. Eugene gave Thomas a wink.

"Oh?" The Duke folded his arms over his chest. "I would quite like to meet this _guard _of Prince Thomas'."

The King lapsed into heavy silence, shooting several glances at Elsa and her son. The Duke sneered, knowing he had struck a blow.

_How much else does he know? _the Queen of Arendelle wondered with consternation.

After a pause, Eugene slowly turned to address her. "That would be something you'll have to take up with Queen Elsa herself," he said slowly. There was a hint of apology in the King's eyes.

Elsa sighed in resignation. In the back of her mind, she had always known it would come down to this. Whether he was guilty or not; the Duke of Weselton would never turn down such a brilliant opportunity to drive more thorns into her side, to snipe at her while she was weak. The old man's eyes bored into her, their malevolent light magnified by his spectacles, his moustache curling in a smirk.

_Monster! MONSTER!_

That was twenty years ago. But was today really any different? Her powers were common knowledge now, her kingdom prosperous and more powerful than it had ever been. But what if it was only _because _of knowledge of her powers that her kingdom had grown? Call it peace, call it alliance, what if all it really was, all it always had been was _fear?_ Fear of her magic, fear of the dark power she wielded. How much would it take for that fear to turn to panic? Before the whispers of _witch, sorceress, abomination_ became the chant of war?

In her turmoil, she felt crystals begin to form upon the wood beneath her fingers. From there, it was all too easy to fall back to tactics old and desperate.

_Conceal… conceal it, don't_—

"Elsa?"

Her sister's voice. Her dear sister Anna, looking at her from across the table, worry evident in her expression. Kristoff beside her, a pillar of stoic strength. Annabeth and Christopher, their youth seeming so out of place in such a congregation of old men, making their reassuring smiles all the more endearing.

Thomas.

Her precious, sweet child, the piece of her family she never even dared to _dream_ of up to the moment she felt him moving within her. His beautiful slate eyes stared back at her, looking to her, an all-too-familiar light of panic mirrored in them. She was his mother; she was his strength. She could not falter now.

Elsa's hands clenched into fists.

_Never again._

The frost stopped its spread at her will. The Snow Queen raised her head, glaring defiantly back at the Duke with irises of ice. A smile touched her lips.

_Much has changed in two decades._

"Thomas, His Grace the Duke of Weselton wants you to introduce him to Sir Gingivere." Elsa's voice left no room for argument.

Her son tentatively rose, giving her one last uncertain look. Elsa simply nodded. Thomas stepped from their table, strutting smartly to the door. The instant he thought he was free from the eyes of the assembly, he cast off decorum, taking off at a flat run down the hall. A smile tugged at the corners of Elsa's mouth. For once, she let it show. Let them see her love for her son. Let them see where her priorities lay.

"Now, until the boy returns with his guard, what about these dagger shards of yours?" Prince Joseph spoke in an offhand tone, as if the answer to his own question held only mild curiosity for him.

"Well, the dagger didn't shatter into _too_ many pieces, so the weapon is fairly easy to put back together." Eugene rearranged the metal shards on the table until five of the larger pieces fit into a long, slender blade.

"What about the rest of those small pieces?" The Prince of the Southern Isles had his fingers to his chin now.

"These were much harder to fit back, but our investigator managed it," the King replied. "It turns out the assassin had two knives: this one…" Eugene gestured to the reassembled dagger. "...which he or she used on Prince Thomas, and the other…" He gestured to the rest of the pieces on the table. "...which we assume he or she used to defend him or herself after the first dagger broke."

"That's all fine and dandy, but I fail to see how this _evidence _of yours brings us any closer at all to capturing said assassin!" The Duke's condescending tone was unmistakable.

The King readily met the old man's squinted gaze. "That I agree." Shocked gasps burst from the assembled dignitaries at the statement.

Eugene turned to address the room, eyes solemn once more. "Gentlemen, I'll be frank with you all. The trail of Marcus Everett turns cold as we speak. We may have at hand enough witnesses, enough incriminating evidence to prove the man guilty, but we cannot do anything unless the Guard can find and capture him. At the moment, we... we can only wait."

The King's words were met with tense silence. An unknown dignitary shouted out indignantly from the back of the room. "Then what is the purpose of us still being here!?" The others began to shift, murmuring and nodding in agreement, some already rising from their tables to take their leave.

"Ah," Prince Joseph drawled, seeming almost lethargic in attitude. "It seems Prince Thomas has returned with his saviour." The chittering nobles fell silent once more, those who had already risen freezing in their motions.

The young prince was halfway through the door, glancing up at the assembled dignitaries with a plastic smile upon his face. He couldn't hide his nervousness from his own mother, however. Elsa saw it all; the way the corner of his mouth twitched, the way his hand fisted at his side. The way his body was positioned, to conceal what was behind his back.

_Sir Gingivere._

The Queen of Arendelle took another sip of her tea. It had gone cold, the lukewarm liquid unpleasant upon her tongue, but she swallowed it all anyway. The scene at the harbour—had it really only been two days ago?—played out in her mind. The knight of ice marching down the gangplank. The Coronan guards shying away in fear, crying _monster, ice demon_.

Except this time, instead of a score of guards, it was a score of powerful and influential dignitaries who would be beset by terror.

Despite herself, Elsa swallowed. She should just summon a _human _member of the Guard to attest instead. It would be so much easier, and probably for the best! A harmless, placating lie…

But a lie nonetheless. The Snow Queen's lips drew to a tight, resolute line. Her days of concealing were over.

She gave her son an almost imperceptible nod. Thomas took a deep breath.

"Presenting my guardian and my saviour, Sir Gingivere the Lionhearted." Her son released his hold upon the door, letting it swing open fully.

The chamber was enveloped in deafening silence.

Elsa surreptitiously glanced around. Every set of eyes in the room stared unblinkingly at the open doorway. Some seemed ready to laugh, as if they thought it all a joke; others sat motionless, not even drawing breath. A vein pulsed on the Duke of Weselton's forehead, his eyes seeming on the verge of popping from their sockets.

And then Sir Gingivere stepped forward into the light.

Incoherent gagging sounds came from several of the shocked dignitaries. The Duke shrank behind his bodyguards so fast that the men themselves almost toppled backwards with him. A trembling finger rose to take aim at the knight of ice.

"M—monstrosity! It's… it's black magic! It's—"

Sir Gingivere's helmet turned, fixing the Duke with his faceless gaze. The old noble seemed to choke on his own words. The knight's head gave a tilt.

"Must all first meetings begin thus?"

Without waiting for an answer, the suit of armour continued across the chamber, kneeling ceremoniously at the feet of the King and Queen. Eugene touched the icy crown of the knight's helmet with a gloved hand.

"Rise, Sir Gingivere."

The suit of armour did as bid, rising to his full towering height. For what seemed an eternity, the chamber remained in silence heavy with tension. Then, to Elsa's complete surprise, Prince Joseph burst into uproarious gaffaws.

"This… this is your _son's _handiwork, isn't it?" The prince's body shook with laughter.

Elsa's eyes narrowed. "And what makes you say that?"

The Prince of the Southern Isles wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. "Oh, it just looks so _sinister! _Not like anything the gentle and pacifistic Snow Queen of Arendelle would conjure up!"

Elsa bristled internally. She couldn't tell rather the prince was joking, insulting her, or if he was truly dead serious under his playful demeanor, but the way he spoke set her on edge in a way the Duke of Weselton's screeching never could.

_He speaks as if he is above me, _she thought bitterly._ As if even now _he _has the higher ground._

Sir Gingivere, however, responded quite frankly. "Indeed, I am the creation of His Highness, Prince Thomas."

"Who cares who _made _the damn thing!" Evidently, the Duke had found his voice again. "_Look _at it! It's a monster! An abomination!"

"An 'abomination' who saved my nephew's life!" Anna shouted straight back, her glare hot and fiery. "You have nothing to be afraid of from Sir Gingivere unless you mean Tom harm..."

"Quite correct—" the knight began to agree, but Anna wasn't finished.

"...Which is probably why you _do _fear him, you lily-livered, good-for-nothing—mmph!"

Kristoff hastily clamped a hand over his wife's mouth, halting her stream of colourful language. The mountain man whispered something in his wife's ear before slowly letting go of her again. If anything, Anna's glare at the Duke burned hotter yet, but her tongue stayed mercifully at rest.

Elsa grinned within, though she fought to keep a straight face._ There's the sister I know._

The Queen of Arendelle turned to the Duke with an eyebrow raised. "You requested Sir Gingivere's presence. What do you have to say to him?"

"I'd thought the guardian of your child to be _human_, in the least! Not this… this freak of nature!"

"And why not?" The Snow Queen stared deep into the eyes of the old noble, her tone laced with undeniable steel. "Sir Gingivere is a better guardian than any human. He needs no sleep, no rest. He never tires, never wavers in his vigilance." At this, she turned her gaze to Prince Joseph. "Those who wish to harm my son, he will hunt relentlessly, _mercilessly_ to the death."

The Duke of Weselton shivered visibly at her words. The Prince of the Southern Isles merely smiled all the wider. At the sight of the living suit of armour, however, most of the other dignitaries seemed just as ready to bolt as the Duke. The fear was almost palpable, the hush that hung over the room growing more tense by the moment.

"Does anyone else have anything to say?" The King's voice rang dully off the walls of the chamber. There was no response but silence. Eugene nodded. "Then, I pronounce this meeting adjourned."

Instantly, the room came alive with activity. Fear of the elusive assassin coupled with terror of Sir Gingivere made the dignitaries move as if possessed. Elsa watched them leave, her mind churning with worries of her own.

She was still no closer to determining who had sent the assassin after her son in the first place, but she _had_ managed to instill fear of Sir Gingivere in the dignitaries of a dozen nations.

_But is it enough? Is it enough to stop whoever did it from making another attempt on my son's life?_

Alas, fear was volatile. Its power was foul and dark, twisting people in unpredictable ways.

_Fear will be your enemy._

Hadn't it been fear that had lead to her cursing her own kingdom, so many years ago?

Elsa closed her eyes. She prayed she hadn't made a dreadful mistake.

When she opened them again, the chamber was empty. Her family were the only people left in their seats.

Elsa looked to the monarchs of Corona. "Eugene, Rapunzel, I'm… I'm sorry we must part this way. But my decision is made as well. Our Captain Edwards makes preparations as we speak. We sail with the tide."

Eugene bowed his head.

"Promise to visit again?" Rapunzel's voice was tender, almost pleading, her eyes filled with raw sadness and apology.

Elsa gave the Queen of Corona her best smile. "We promise."

"We _will _find the assassin," Eugene stated firmly, an arm closing around his wife's shoulders. "This, I swear on my grave."

"I cannot ask any more of you. You have been the best hosts we could have asked for. What happened was not your fault." Surprising even herself, the Queen of Arendelle wrapped the Coronan royals in a soft embrace. Needing no further cue, her sister jumped in with a giggle, enveloping them all in a bear hug.

"We're coming back," Anna murmured into Rapunzel's shoulder, weeping and laughing at once. "For better or for worse, we're coming back."

* * *

Captain Alek of the Guards was quite serious about his job. All who applied for the Royal Guard had to be, and with a rank as high as his, the pressure was doubly intense. He had to be diligent, decisive, never faltering, never failing. The one who got the job done, especially with lives on the line. Especially in a situation such as this.

The assassin was gone. One moment they were closing in on him, the reports coming fast and frequent; the next, the man was just _gone_. No leads, no trail to speak of. It was as if he'd disappeared into thin air. The facts were enough to give any man a headache, but for Alek, they came damn close to blowing his fuse. How could an assassin, no matter how skilled, have evaded a legion of guards in such close quarters as the streets of Corona, without leaving so much as a _trace_ of his escape?

"Sir!"

Clipped and direct, the voice nevertheless lacked the gruffness of complete manhood. Alek shook himself back to the present, giving the young officer his attention.

"Do you have a report, son?"

The young man took a deep breath, chest puffing out even more stiffly than before.

"Sir, there's been an... incident at one of the pubs." There was a tone of uneasiness to the statement—one that forbade the news to come.

Alek's gaze turned severe, his thick eyebrows knitting together. "Well, out with it!"

"Four guards and a marksman have been found… have been found passed out, in the pub. Sir."

The Captain was not usually a temperamental man. On a good day, he was reasonable and kind, rarely doling out harsh punishment, and then only when needed. But the news couldn't have come at a worse time. Volcanic fury exploded behind Alek's eyes, making his fists clench and teeth grind. The officer quailed under his fiery glare.

"Take me there. Now."

"Sir, yes sir!"

The young man turned on his heel and marched briskly down the street. The Captain of the Guards followed close behind, breathing heavily from the fires of rage burning in his bosom. The pub wasn't far from the town square, and the duo reached it within minutes. The building was a ramshackle thing, the wooden sign hanging above the entrance reading _The Jolly Ram _in faded lettering, the door creaking with age and disrepair. The interior was dim from the light of the tiny windows, but the grime on the tables still glinted visibly. Alek's jaw tightened in disgust.

_Never mind their duty, my men would _never _drink in a dump like this._

The place was mostly empty, except for an old man stooped asleep in the corner. The disheveled bartender appeared from behind the counter to take a gander at the newcomers, and just as quickly shrank from view at the sight of the Captain. At the far corner, four figures slumped over a table, a fifth sprawled limp upon the dirty floorboards.

"I tried to wake them, sir," said the young officer, shaking his head. "They must have had something real strong!"

Wordlessly, Alek marched across the room, his boots thudding heavily on the hardwood. One of the figures lifted his head groggily, before promptly flopping back onto the tabletop. The Captain stopped his feet a metre from the table where the five men were situated. His bellow was like thunder, shaking the pub to its very foundations.

"_WHAT IS GOING ON HERE!?_"

The man on the ground raised his gaze upward at the form of Alek towering above him.

"S… Sir?" he mumbled. Even in his drunken state, the guard must have seen the storm in the Captain's eyes, because he weakly propped himself to a sitting position, rubbing his eyes profusely. "Sir! I—I can explain…"

"_WHAT IS YOUR NAME, GUARDSMAN!_"

"D—Daniel, sir. Daniel Baker."

_Daniel Baker? _The young, determined marksman who aced every exam thrown at him? The one who never drank a drop of alcohol, lest it "impair his vision"?

_This isn't like him. This isn't like any of them._

Alek turned his gaze to the other men at the table.

"And what about the rest of you? _OR ARE YOU STILL TOO DRUNK TO SPEAK!_"

One by one, the guards cracked their eyelids open, their stares still fogged with sleep.

"Wha… what's happening?" one of the men groaned.

"_EXPLAIN YOURSELVES! _There is an _assassin_ on the loose, in this _very village_ for all we know, and yet I find my men here, passed out in a pub, _DRUNK AS DOGS!_" The Captain brought a massive fist smashing down onto the surface of the table, jolting the rest of the guards to alertness.

"An assassin…" The marksman had risen to his feet, though his stance was still unsteady. He looked to the other men, eyes growing wide as moons. "The assassin! By God, we had him! Everett was on the ground and..." Daniel's brow knitted in confusion. "How… how did we get _here? _And where's my bow?"

Alek looked to the other guards, all of whom seemed equally bemused.

"Danny speaks the truth, sir," said one, a burly man with a close-cropped beard. "We _had _him! Everett was right under our sword tips! Then…" That same look of confusion passed over the guard's face. "Then I'm here, waking up with a whopper of a headache, sir."

The Captain's frown deepened further. "And what about the rest of you? What do you recall happening?"

"I remember… white men," murmured the marksman. "White men, emerging from the shadows, sir. The others fell to the ground. I was farther away, but they must have seen me, too, because then everything went dark."

"They… they had sticks in their hands, sir," added another of the guards.

"Not sticks, pipes! Like some sort of flute."

_Waking up with a whopper of a headache… Some sort of flute..._

The facts all clicked together in Alek's mind. He whirled in the direction of the bar.

"Bartender! _BARTENDER!_"

The bar remained still as a grave. The Captain vaulted over the counter, gaze sweeping left and right. Sure enough, the bartender was nowhere to be found. Marching around to the brewery entrance, Alek found it firmly locked and immobile. He rammed his shoulder into the door, but it would not give. He cursed under his breath.

"Men, to me!" he yelled, already dashing for the exit. "We cannot let the barman escape!"

The guards quickly obeyed, shaking their heads to clear the last of the drugged sleep from their minds. The Captain kicked aside the pub door, casting the interior into the pale light of the world beyond. The rain had started up again, and it slicked the men's helmets, darkening their uniforms. Alek strode out onto the street, turning to regard his meagre entourage.

"The barman can't have gone far! We will spread out and form a search net. You two, to the main street! You two, go around and search up the side street! Officer, alert as many other guards as you can. Daniel, with me!"

"_Sir, yes sir!_"

The other men dispersed, swiftly going their separate ways. The Captain made for the side alley by the pub, gesturing for the marksman to follow.

"Let's see if we can catch the bastard yet."

The space between buildings was narrow, and Alek had to squeeze himself sideways to traverse the length of the alley. The street behind the pub was abuzz with activity, the shops busy as ever despite the dreary weather.

"There!" Daniel said abruptly, pointing a ways into the distance. "Someone seems to be in quite the hurry!"

The Captain followed the marksman's finger with his gaze. The crowd was thick, and at first Alek couldn't make out anything amidst the sea of coats and hats. But as he scoured the scene, he noticed a disturbance among the people. Someone was in quite the rush, body hunched over, callously pushing shoppers and pedestrians aside in his haste. Alek took off full tilt down the pavement, shouting in his most authoritative voice.

"_Stop that man!_"

Surprised villagers froze in their paths, looking around in bewilderment, inadvertently forming a solid human barrier throughout the crowded street. The man glanced over his shoulder in panic at the Captain of the Guards bearing down upon him, his escape obstructed by the thick soup of streetgoers.

_It's the bartender alright._

Alek marched through the crowd, villagers parting before his golden uniform. The panting barman suddenly produced a dagger, slashing the air wildly.

"Outta my way! _Outta my way or I'll stick ya!_" he cried hoarsely.

The crowd scattered like birds, the villagers screaming in fright. The man wasted no time, bolting through the opening in the throngs with speed born of desperation. As he ran past, however, two figures at the sidelines abruptly lunged forward, deftly disarming the barman and muscling him to the ground.

"You are under arrest by the authority of the Royal Guard," one of the men stated, pinning the bartender's arms behind his back. He looked to the Captain. "Sir, he's all yours."

_Plainclothes agents._ Alek nodded in satisfaction.

"Good work, men."

The Captain put his arms behind his back, turning to the trembling barman. He leaned in, his eyebrows like storm clouds, his gaze intense as lightning. The bartender craned his neck, shrinking as far as possible from Alek's eyes.

"Last night, five of my men were drugged and their bodies hidden in your pub. Who bribed you to stay silent?" The Captain's voice was low, barely above a whisper. The barman swallowed audibly.

"I—I had nothin' to do with it, I—I swear!"

Alek stroked his short moustache. "Oh? Then I suppose there's no further reason not to haul you over to court. You gave some of our fine citizens quite the scare, after all…"

The man's body jerked in the grip of the plainclothes guards.

"N—no, please! I'm an innocent man, sir, an innocent man!" The bartender licked his lips, eyes pleading.

"Spare me your excuses." Alek tossed the bartender's dagger at the man's feet. "I ask you again. Who put my men in your pub?"

"They went to my boss the landlord, sir. I'm just the bartender, I—I didn't see much of nothin'. These serious-lookin' men in white uniforms, they comes through the door carrying a big bundle of somethin', askin' to see the manager. I—I tells them my boss is in the brew'ry, and next thing I know, boss is tellin' me to take care of the pub for a coupla days, says he's goin' someplace or other…"

The Captain turned to address one of the plainclothes. "Alert the guard. We're on the lookout for the owner of _The Jolly Ram._" The agent nodded, turning on his heel and marching down the street. Alek redirected his gaze to the barman.

"Did your boss tell you where he was going?"

The man shook his head vigorously. The Captain held his stare for a timeless moment. Then Alek spoke.

"Let him go."

The agent tilted his head. "Sir?"

"Let him go. The assassin is long gone."

* * *

_**A very special thanks to the utterly fantabulous **__**Ptah Aegyptus**__** for his invaluable beta-reading efforts. Together, we are strong.**_


	23. Cold Seas

_**Disclaimer: Goodbye, Tangled! Frozen... you still don't belong to me.**_

* * *

**Chapter 23: Cold Seas**

Marcus awoke to darkness. He blinked in the opaque gloom, searching with no avail for some source of light. A fierce panic began to build in his chest as he realized he couldn't move his limbs. Was this death? This bleak, senseless world of nothing?

But no. Slowly, the walls of the room came into focus as the assassin's eyes adjusted. He was not paralyzed but bound—strapped to a chair with thick, sturdy rope. Immediately he began to strain against its grip, but whoever had tied him up had obviously been competent at the job; the coils proved tight and unyielding. He kicked and struggled, but to no avail. After a few moments, he slumped defeated within his bindings. He was at the utter mercy of his captors.

His head throbbed with pain, a dull pound that echoed the rhythm of his heart. His entire body ached, muscles twinging in protest with every sway of the wooden planks beneath him. A faint but definite tang of sea salt lingered in the air. So he was on a ship.

_Probably _in _a ship, by the look of the place_, the assassin mused sourly.

This was where his greed had dragged him. Had he just taken the Duke's initial pouch of coin and been done with it, he would still have been a free man. Not like now, tied up in the brig of some vessel carrying him off to God-knew-where.

_It could be worse, _a voice nagged at the back of his mind. _At least you're not at the gallows yet. As long as you're alive, you have options..._

At this, Marcus strained his ears in the silent air. Nothing but the groaning of the hull. Were there even guards posted at the door? Heck, were there even sailors belowdecks at the moment? The captive assassin quickly grew restless. Where was his mysterious saviour, that man "Jericho"? One thing was certain; Marcus wasn't going to just sit around and wait for the bastard to show himself.

The assassin wriggled anew in his seat, trying to loosen the coils of rope strapping him to the chair. After a few more moments, he felt the binding around his shoulders begin to slacken, allowing him some use of his arms. He kicked out, pushing against the floor with his feet to help him squirm further out of the confines of the ropes. Sweat of exertion slicked his forehead, dripping down into his eyes, but at last he managed to pull an arm free, blood rushing back into the limb in a flurry of pins and needles.

Marcus gasped as a searing pain suddenly flared in his hand. It was only then that he realized he had freed the _wrong _arm. Helpless to stop them, the assassin's eyes wandered down his tattered sleeve, the fabric cut short at the elbow. The end of his arm was concealed in layer upon layer of white bandages, tapering off to a stub. Waves of nausea threatened to overcome him. There was no room in those bandages for fingers.

His hand was gone.

He screamed, a keening cry of pain and disbelief. Almost immediately, footsteps sounded outside, the click of a lock being opened vaguely registering in Marcus' ears. The iron-framed door slammed open, revealing two heavily-built men in sailor's uniforms.

"Someone alert the Master!" one hollered over his shoulder. "The prisoner's awake!"

Marcus jerked against the ropes that still bound him, half-crazed in his panic.

"My hand. What the _fuck _did you bastards do to my hand!" Spittle flew from the assassin's lips, his body straining all the more fiercely against his bonds. The sailors marched forward, unfazed, swiftly pinning the assassin's free arm to his side. Marcus twisted uselessly in their vice-like grip.

"Unhand me, you dogs! I'll decorate the floor with your innards!"

"Now, now. That's no way to treat my men."

The voice was low, quiet even, but something in its tone compelled Marcus to cease in his movements. It was only then that he noticed the figure standing in the shadows of the doorway.

"And who the hell are _you?_" the assassin growled, anger still simmering within his heaving chest. In response, the figure stepped closer through the gloom. Marcus' eyes widened in recognition, then just as quickly narrowed. "Jericho."

The slender man laughed, soft and cold. "So you do remember me. That's good. The sedative didn't cause any lasting harm."

The assassin tried not to dwell upon the implications of that statement.

"Where am I?"

"You're aboard a ship, sailing away from Corona."

"Why am I here? What do you want from me?"

Jericho chuckled, shaking his head. "Not even a word of thanks for your timely rescue."

Marcus glared untrustingly back at his captor. "In the hands of the Guard, I knew what awaited me. With you, I've not a clue."

Jericho smiled as if the assassin had made a clever joke. He gestured dismissively to the two men holding Marcus.

"Leave us."

The hands released their grasp, dropping the assassin back into his chair. The men silently took their leave, their footfalls fading into the distance as the door swung shut behind them. Jericho turned, his eyes hard and sharp as steel.

"Your employer played quite the gambit when he hired you. Are you familiar with the Queen of Arendelle?"

"I've… heard of her, yes," Marcus replied. The man must have sensed the wariness in the assassin's tone, because he gave a mocking laugh.

"Oh, Mister Everett," he said with a condescending tilt of his head. "There's no need for that. I very well know whom you were sent to assassinate. In fact, it is the reason for my interest in you. You see, Queen Elsa is not someone to be trifled with. The death of her son would have had incalculable reverberations."

"Is her kingdom _that _bloody powerful?" Marcus scoffed.

Jericho gave the assassin a strange look. "You don't know," he stated after a pause.

Marcus was beginning to get infuriated. "What do I not know?" he demanded.

The other man raised an eyebrow. "I apologize for your hand, by the way. The doctor did his best, but in the end we had to amputate everything up to the wrist."

_Everything up to the wrist… _It was all Marcus could do not to lash out at Jericho's maddeningly calm face. His body trembled anew with rage and sorrow.

"You are lucky not to have lost your whole arm, you know." At this, the man locked eyes with the assassin. "The doctor had never before seen frostbite so severe."

_Frostbite?_

Memories flashed through Marcus' mind. The relentless ice golem. The translucent spikes thrusting up from the bed. The bolt of light leaping from the boy's fingers, carrying with it agony more intense than anything the assassin had ever known. The purple, shriveled skin of his left hand.

"The Crown Prince… struck me with something," he told Jericho hesitantly.

The man laughed cruelly. "Oh, I'm sure he did. You couldn't kill the boy, could you?"

The assassin bared his teeth. "Are you calling me weak?"

Jericho's expression was impassive. "The moment the prince awoke, you stood no chance. Tell me, have you heard of the Snow Queen?"

"Can't say I have."

"Then you are one of the few." The man turned heel, striding around Marcus' chair. "She is an individual who commands the winter elements, who can bring blizzards and snowstorms down upon the land at her mere _whim_." Jericho stopped, face centimetres from the assassin's. "You were the poor unfortunate sent to kill her son."

For a moment, Marcus just stared back at his captor.

"You're serious. The Queen of Arendelle is… is a bloody _witch?_" The statement felt absurd even as it left his mouth. In reply, the other man simply gestured to the bandages enrobing what was left of the assassin's hand.

"There is ice in the blood of their royal line," stated Jericho. "Dark magic whose origins we do not know." The man paused, as if contemplating his own words. Abruptly, he spoke again. "Your employer was planning on betraying you, you know."

The assassin was silent. Betrayal. Hadn't he always known it to be a possibility? Yes. Known, but never considered. The glare of coin had made him blind, brought him damn close to destruction.

The faceless knight of ice returned to his mind's eye. The grim expression upon the boy's face as he extended his fingers.

_Dark magic..._ Marcus shivered.

Jericho studied him closely. After a moment, the man pulled away, shadows veiling his face once more.

"You understand now the power the Snow Queen wields. The potential threat she poses. You understand why we couldn't leave you in the wrong hands." The man's silhouette drew toward the door.

"Wait!" Marcus cried. "Who are you? Where are you taking me!"

Jericho's mirthless laughter reverberated from the walls.

"The Southern Isles, Mister Everett." The door closed with a thud.

* * *

The bitter taste of failure lingered foully upon the Duke of Weselton's tongue.

His assassin had escaped. The prince had survived. Worst of all, the assembly's suspicion toward him had been almost palpable. Yet, for once, the Duke had no more schemes left in mind, no more ways to twist the situation to his benefit. For once, all he wanted was to flee. That statue—that suit of armour he had so obliviously passed by in the palace hall—it was _alive._ It had defeated his assassin, shattered Everett's blade as if the metal were nothing more than mere glass. No face, no eyes, yet when it had stared at the Duke, it was as if it had _known_. In that moment, the empty helmet had been the face of death itself.

The _Swiftwater _leapt across the waves, bow heaving, shuddering with every impact of the rollicking waters of the open sea. The masts groaned, sails bloated with wind, tugging the aged vessel at breakneck pace. The deck swayed, listing back and forth as the ship rode the swells; only this time the Duke's nausea was blotted out by a desperate need to sail faster, to put as much distance between him and the Kingdom of Corona as possible.

"Your Grace, we needn't stress her like this," Captain Moore implored, consternation evident in his tone as he looked up at the masts. "Poor thing's moaning in complaint!"

"You will run this ship as fast as it will take us!" the Duke growled, leaning heavily on the railing of the quarterdeck. The captain seemed on the verge of arguing further, but was silenced with a glare.

_At least someone still knows his place_, the Duke thought, casting his gaze back over the endless waters all around. The sun shone clear in the direction they sailed, but looming clouds obscured the sky beyond the stern. The Duke found himself tracking their movements with a wary eye. The wind... was it him, or did it carry more bite than before? Those curtains of mist beneath the clouds were of rain, surely—but didn't snow look akin to rain from afar?

The Duke's moustache curled acutely in his frustration. It mattered not whether where he was; the Snow Queen's presence seemed to be everywhere. Was this... guilt? This paranoia that haunted his every waking moment and chased him even in his dreams? No, he realized; it would never be. The mere fact that Queen Elsa could elicit so much terror in him was simply atrocious! No one deserved power of that calibre. No one should have the ability to send thousands to their frozen deaths with a simple gesture of the hand. The sorceress had to be dealt with, she and her son both, guardian or no guardian.

Unable to abide the sight of the dark horizon any longer, the Duke turned heel and made for his private cabin. The sounds of the crashing waves dampened as he passed through the doorway, the sea muted by the walls enclosing him. He shut the door, knees groaning as he slowly sat at his desk. The worn tabletop was awash with parchment, documents moving precariously this way and that with the listing of the floor. A single paper slid into his view amidst the chaos, the words upon it scrawled and blotted with edits. The Duke sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. It was a draft of his trade proposal to Queen Rapunzel.

Alas, the Land of the Sun was almost certainly lost to Weselton now. He and his nation would be lucky to not have gained the dangerous suspicions of many important men, much less the trust and willingness of the Coronan monarchs. All because of an attempted assassination. Attempted, but failed. All because that deplorable Marcus Everett couldn't deliver! With a roar, the Duke tore the parchment to shreds.

_And where is that Everett now? _he brooded._ Gone! With my coin in his coffer!_

At that, the Duke's musings turned bitterly to his imminent homecoming. His power-hungry brat of a nephew would most certainly launch another campaign to have him removed from office once he caught word of the Duke's failure. Even the thought of the self-righteous cur made the old noble's teeth grit. The Council, too, would no doubt want an assembly of their own, though that should prove more benign. Even so, the Duke knew he had to tread lightly this time; he would need the support and loyalty of the Council in the political storm to come.

And there would be a maelstrom. That was to be ascertained. For in all the disorder of the Duke's mind, one decision stood, solid and resolute. Two decades ago, Weselton had been the heart of a merchant empire. Then, one supernatural event had brought the Duke's nation—brought _him!_— down the long and wretched path to ruin. Two decades he had already wasted in limbo, while the Snow Queen had only grown in power and prestige. No more. It was time to act.

Queen Elsa of Arendelle would fall.

* * *

Snowflakes drifted down, threading the spokes in the helm, dissipating as they alighted upon the polished wood. Captain Norman Edwards watched them fall, suppressing a shiver at the sudden cold in the air.

_Her Majesty must be having another of her nightmares_, he mused with a frown.

He donned the fur coat he now kept draped over the railing, shaking his head sadly as he returned to the tiller, his breath beginning to mist in the air. The whole situation with the assassin seemed surreal to him. Sure, the Captain had _heard _of such things happening, but to Prince Thomas? _His _Prince Thomas, heir to the throne of Arendelle? It was unthinkable, unimaginable. And yet someone had tried.

The golden crocus billowed upon the mast, the bow of the _Albatross _cutting a swath through the calm waters beneath. Points of flickering diamond dotted the black sky above, the summer winds gentle and temperate long after the departure of the blazing sun. Yet nothing could dispel the wintry chill that hung over the great galleon. The sailors uttered not a word of complaint, to say nothing of the Royal Guards, but the Captain knew they all felt it, all knew of the Queen's turmoil.

Her Majesty had stepped aboard the ship gaunt and stern, her face like chiseled stone, back stiff as a board. The Crown Prince himself had seemed suspended in a shocked state, as if he hadn't quite been able to process the long scar that marred his neck. Even Princess Anna had been downcast, her posture stooped, double braids dripping in the drizzle of that dark day. The royals had arrived to the kingdom with hearts among the clouds; they left with contagious despair looming over them all. It was thus that the _Albatross _had slid from the Coronan port, the cries of gulls the only herald to their departure.

The Captain pulled out his sextant, looking up to the stars. It had been a rather uneventful week at sea, the waves calm, sinister clouds only ever forming in the far distance. Perhaps even Mother Nature feared to provoke Queen Elsa in her state upon this voyage. Norman only hoped for their good fortune to last to Arendellian shores.

_Almost home_. The Captain lowered the navigational device, rubbing at his eyes with fatigue. He knew he should rest more often but, to be completely honest with himself, was reluctant to relinquish the helm after so many years at port. Nevertheless, he beckoned for his First Mate to take the tiller. A good helmsman was an alert one; he could not be a risk to his crew and passengers. He needed a break. However, there was something that needed doing first.

Walking down the steps from the quarterdeck, the Captain strode across the ship, making for the hatch at the foot of the mainmast. At his word, two Royal Guards lifted open the trapdoor, stepping smartly to each side and following after as he stepped into the darkness below. The hallway flickered with warm amber light, the oil lamps hanging from the walls burning dim and soft. A deep silence presided belowdecks, and Norman found himself scarcely breathing in the still atmosphere. The Captain stopped his feet once he came to a set of grand double doors, another two grey-clad men standing attentively at the sides.

"I'm here to see the Queen," he announced.

The guards looked to each other, then nodded back to the Captain, gently turning the brass handles and pushing the doors wide.

Queen Elsa lay in a pearl white nightgown, platinum hair splayed across the pillows, the bedsheets clutched in one trembling fist. Princess Anna sat at the bedside, gingerly grasping her sister's pale hand in her own, silently looking upon the older woman. A wave of frigid air undulated from the room, washing over the Captain in a cold draught. It was only then that he noticed the tendrils of crystalline frost crawling up the bedposts, the ice spiralling outwards from the Queen's slight body.

"Elsa, you have a visitor." The Princess' voice was soft, barely audible to Norman's ears, but immediately the Queen's piercing blue eyes snapped open, her gaze locking upon the Captain in an instant. He bowed low, a hand fisted at his heart.

"Am I… intruding, Your Majesty?"

For a moment, there was silence. Then the Queen's voice sounded, surprisingly steady and firm after her obvious agitation a mere moment before.

"Come now, Captain. There's no need for that. Speak your mind."

Norman suppressed a smile. There it was. That note of undeniable love and kindness that made Queen Elsa the compassionate and just ruler she was and would always be. In that moment, Norman thought back to the sweet little girl whom old Agdar had loved so painfully, had done everything to protect. He hadn't known of her magic then, of course—even a close friend and a captain in the Royal Fleet didn't have access to the King's most close-kept secret—but he had known the gentleness of her heart, the selflessness in her spirit. Even after she cast Arendelle into winter, even after the entire fjord froze over, his beloved _Albatross _with it, the Captain never lost faith in his queen. He knew goodness would be in her soul, no matter the circumstance. He believed in her.

And that belief had held true, time and time again. Like her father before her, Elsa kept her subjects loyal, not through fear of her power, but through love of it. And what magnificent power it was. With it, she could singlehandedly decimate navies and conquer nations, should she wish to. The _world _was practically hers for the taking, yet Arendelle had barely expanded its borders in the two decades of her reign. Her powers weren't weapons; they were embellishments upon her persona, pieces of her very soul. Anyone who saw otherwise might as well have been blind.

The Captain finally looked up.

"We are almost home, Your Majesty. I thought you would want to know."

_The ordeal is nearly through_, he didn't say, but he saw in the Queen's eyes that she had heard the silent words nonetheless.

"You hear that, Elsa? Just a few more days, and you'll be back with Henrik!" the Princess exclaimed cheerily, the sudden vigour in her eyes making her seem a decade younger. The Queen smiled weakly, the weight upon her shoulders lessening visibly at the mention of her husband's name.

"That is indeed music to my ears," Elsa exhaled gratefully. She closed her eyes, a faint crackling beginning to fill the air. The Captain looked on in awe as the ice upon the sheets disappeared, fingers of frost retreating into the Queen's slight body, the temperature within the chamber slowly returning to the summer norm. The Queen's eyes opened once more, eyes glimmering with warmth.

"Thank you, Captain. You've done much to soothe me."

Norman bowed humbly. "I am glad, Your Majesty." He turned to take his leave.

The guards closed the doors upon the scene of the two royal sisters, expressionlessly returning to their positions. The Captain continued through the belowdecks hallway, his boots thumping upon the wooden planks. He stopped at another door, this one much smaller and more plain than the Queen's. No uniformed men stood guard here, but Norman knew the single glinting statue of ice was more than enough.

Sir Gingivere fisted a hand over his breastplate with a dull clank, visor turning to face the Captain. Norman responded with a stiff bow of his own. He'd never quite known what to make of the Crown Prince's creation, but there was an undeniable air of menace about its towering form, its mechanical movements…

"Is His Highness awake?" he asked the knight.

"I believe so," Sir Gingivere replied. "May I enquire as to the reason for your visit?"

The Captain let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding in. The golem's _voice _always surprised Norman—that silvery sound, such a stark contrast to the faceless helmet from which it emanated. Though he was ashamed to admit it, it was that voice that made the Captain think of the knight as a "he" rather than an "it".

"Oh, just some good news for the Highness is all."

Sir Gingivere nodded, pushing open the door with a whisper of parting air. Prince Thomas sat motionless at his desk, a mop of platinum hair partially obscuring his eyes. Opposite the boy sat his two older cousins, brows furrowed in thought as they regarded the porcelain pieces before them. The braziers in the walls burned low, setting the chessboard between the three afire with flickering light and shadow.

The Captain couldn't help but wince. The side of the Crown Prince's neck facing him bore the jagged brown scar of the assassin's blade.

"And what do we have here?" Norman asked conversationally, breaking the silence.

"Good evening, Captain," greeted Princess Annabeth, eyes never straying from the board.

"Evening," the two princes echoed. Prince Christopher whispered something in his sister's ear, who nodded, picking up one of the black knights and placing it hesitantly down on a square. Immediately, Thomas slid his white bishop across the board, felling a black pawn with a firm click.

"Two against one?" the Captain commented. "Seems hardly fair."

"You're right," stated Christopher in a matter-of-fact tone. "We are at a complete disadvantage."

"Check," murmured Thomas.

Norman surveyed the board for lack of else to do. He wasn't much of a chess player himself, but he knew how King Henrik loved the game—a love which the King had evidently passed to his son. It didn't take an experienced eye to tell Black was in quite the fix.

"Do you Highnesses play chess often?" the Captain ventured, suddenly perceiving the heavy atmosphere in the room.

Christopher shrugged halfheartedly. "Kind of pointless to play against Tom, but we try."

"You flatter me," said the Crown Prince, but there was no hint of humour in his voice.

Norman frowned. Thomas had been distant from the moment they had left port. Gone was the boy's excitement, the joy upon his face as he stood atop the prow, arms raised to the sky. It was as if the light in the young prince's eyes had been dimmed, replaced by a dark, foreboding gloom that hinted at the storm within. The encounter with the assassin had scarred the poor boy, both inside and out. Only time would tell if the damage was irrevocable.

"Well, I have some good news, lads!" the Captain exclaimed, attempting to lighten the mood. "We'll be back home in a couple days time."

Annabeth gave a relieved sigh. "Oh, thank goodness! I think I take after Dad when I say I'm not meant for seafaring!" Indeed, the princess seemed a little green at the gills, even now with the _Albatross _cruising in tranquil seas.

"I'll just be glad to be back in cooler air," said Christopher, wiping his brow theatrically. "Corona was just so unbearably _hot!_"

"It's the Land of the Sun for a reason." The Crown Prince's voice held only the barest teasing hint.

"I think it's safe to say we'll all be happier once we reach port," Norman stated, moving to place a calloused hand upon Thomas' shoulder. "Then the past will truly be behind us."

The young prince just sighed—a low, hopeless sound. "Let us hope so," he said, as if trying to convince himself. The boy lifted his gaze back over the table.

"Your move."

Christopher gingerly picked up a dark pawn in his fingers. The piece met the board with a crisp knock.

"You're safe now," Annabeth told her glum cousin. "Everything will be better once we get home. You'll see."

A light of uncertainty persisted in Thomas' slate eyes. "How can you be so sure?"

The princess smiled. "I'm not! I've never been. But that's never stopped us before, has it?"

"And think of it this way," Christopher piped. "What if what whoever sent the assassin wanted in the first place was to make you vulnerable and _weak _with fear and doubt? You can't let them win, Tom!"

The Crown Prince was silent.

"My logic cannot be denied!" Christopher shouted with mock-dignity.

Finally, the young prince's own face cracked into a grin. "Now that's just being arrogant."

"I like to think of it as _self-confidence_," the other prince returned with a grin of his own.

Annabeth wasted no time in enveloping her younger cousin in a tight embrace. "Yay! Our Tom is back!" she laughed into the boy's shoulder.

The Captain used the temporary distraction to slip quietly from the room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. Sir Gingivere stood outside, head tilted.

"Your news must have been marvelous indeed!"

Norman smiled to the knight. "Oh, it had nothing to do with me. They are strong, those three. They will endure."

* * *

_**And there you have it! Thus winds down the first climax of this tale. I've gone too long without a nice, happy end to my chapters.**_


	24. Homecoming

_**Disclaimer: Frozen is not mine. Did you expect a more eloquent statement? Too bad.**_

* * *

**Chapter 24: Homecoming**

The morning sun cast its fiery eye over Arendelle Castle, bringing with it the powerful heat of late summer. The air was thick and humid, unnaturally so for the northern kingdom, blanketing languid bliss over the land. Scattered voices of children and shopkeepers mixed with the tinkling calls of songbirds in the breeze, entwining in a wordless harmony of exuberance. The fjord glittered with sapphire radiance, a brilliant jewel upon the great ring of surrounding mountains.

King Henrik gazed out from the tall windows of his private study, fountain pen all but forgotten in his right hand. Trees swayed in the forest beyond, leaves encased with the liquid gold of dawn, carefree birds flitting amidst the foliage. The land gradually tilted upward in the distance, the green of vegetation giving way to the hard slate of mountain stone. Upon his coronation, the King had specifically requested for his chamber to be located facing out toward the North Mountain; the great pinnacle loomed now in his vision, the everlasting snow upon its peak gleaming bright and cold in the sunlight, piercing the summer haze as a stark reminder of the winter that would surely follow.

Not for the first time, Henrik found himself thinking of the palace that resided upon the other side of the mountain, shining and magnificent, yet just out of view. Indeed, its very purpose upon inception had been isolation; namely, the self-imposed isolation of a fearful and confused Queen of Arendelle. Beautiful, yes, but its was a hidden beauty—unknowable unless one first battled the fiercest of the mountain elements. So much like its creator in that respect...

Inevitably, the King's thoughts turned fondly to his wife. Though per tradition Elsa was Queen Consort in title, sometimes Henrik felt as if it were he who was the mere consort. She had been unlike any other woman he'd ever come across before; strong willed, resolute, but with a deep sadness in her soul that had been so _tantalizing_ from the moment he had met her. He had wanted to comfort her, to soothe the invisible scars of her past, to _complete _her. For once, it had been him doing the chasing, for he had found at long last the object of his desire. Not the crown, not some temporary relationship of the body, but _her_. He had chased her with love in his heart, pure and undeniable. It had thrilled and terrified him at the same time; the enigmatic light in those irises of ice; all the stolen moments in the courtroom, at the ice palace, in her study…

_It still does, at times_, the King realized with a small smile. Elsa was his all, his love unto death. She was his adventure.

Henrik leaned back in his chair, stroking his short chestnut beard in contemplation. When his wife had told him she was bearing his child, however apprehensively, it had quite possibly been the happiest moment of his life. When Elsa finally succumbed to the throes of labour, however, it had been utterly petrifying. Who knew what would happen, what _could _happen with a magical being such as her under so much stress? And what of the baby? How would little Thomas be affected?

To say the King had been relieved when his son was pronounced healthy by the royal physician would have been the understatement of the century. To say he had been surprised when the boy began demonstrating supernatural abilities several months later would have been a falsehood, though. In truth, it had been a notion that he had brooded over time and time again; one blatantly ignored, but always considered by his subconscious nonetheless. There had always been the glaring platinum of the boy's hair, so similar to his mother's, so reminiscent of freshly fallen snow. But, in the end, nothing could dampen the shock of actually witnessing snowflakes fly from his son's fingers as the boy grinned up at him with perfect cherubic innocence.

Alas, that had not been the least of it. Then had come the old troll's dark prophecy. Henrik had never really felt comfortable around his ice harvester brother-in-law's strange adoptive family, but that clear night, with Grand Pabbie stroking his son's brow, conducting a light show of blurred futures with one mottled hand, the King had known the true meaning of unease. The ancient creature had spoken with conviction, his words like rolling thunder—powerful and impossible to deny.

_Fear will not be his greatest enemy. His greatest enemy will be _hatred_._

Henrik shuddered, slowly forcing himself back to the present. It had been four weeks since his family's departure upon the _Albatross_, and one week since he had received the letter from the Coronan monarchs confirming their safe arrival to the Land of the Sun. Though he knew they were in good, familiar hands, he worried constantly for them nonetheless. He was too much of a soldier and strategist at heart; having so many factors out of his control act upon his family tormented him to no end. There was simply too much that could go wrong, too much that could at once tear from him everything he held dear...

_Why did I even let them go?_

The King sighed inwardly, closing his eyes. His son needed this. This would be but the beginning of his training—a man did not become a king from studying alone. And there had been no denying those imploring, crystal-blue eyes that Elsa wielded so effectively. For better or for worse, his family was overseas.

Running a tired hand through his greying hair, Henrik returned his gaze to the mound of parchment before him. Loath as he was to admit it, running Arendelle without his Queen was proving more arduous than comfortable. With Elsa gone, her half of the ruling duties was piled upon the King's lone shoulders along with his own. As he had quickly learned, though being the face of trade negotiations wasn't overly difficult, by God was it tedious. For the umpteenth time, Henrik silently praised his wife's seemingly endless patience with such matters. Give him ambassadors and delegates any day; all this revision after revision of proposed agreements, some of them almost hilarious in their absurdity, had him on the verge of taking a torch to it all.

He reached for the thin glass of clear wine upon the table, taking the delicate crystal stem by thumb and forefinger and bringing it to his lips. He took a slow sip, absently swilling the remaining liquid before returning the glass to the tabletop. Just as he was about to set the tip of his pen to parchment, there came three knocks from beyond the door.

"Come in," Henrik called over his shoulder.

There was a click, revealing a rather flustered-looking Kai framed in the doorway. The familiar pudgy form of the servant gave a formal bow. "Your Majesty."

The King's face cracked into a grin. "Kai! I was about to go looking for you! I could use the help of the Royal Advisor with these documents here. How Elsa does this day after day is beyond me…"

Kai stepped into the study, a hint of wryness in his own smile. "Oh, Queen Elsa is beyond us all. And you know full well how little say I had in this "Royal Advisor" business, Your Majesty." Abruptly, the servant's expression turned serious. "But that is neither here nor there."

Henrik's brow darkened in apprehension. "What is it, Kai?"

"A sail flying the Crocus has been spotted on the horizon. The _Albatross _has returned."

"So soon?" The creases upon the King's face deepened.

Kai gave a halfhearted chuckle. "You make it sound as if it's a bad thing, Your Majesty."

"Spare me, Kai. You know Eugene as well as I do. He would have had them stay at least an extra week in Corona, if not more!"

"Perhaps the children were merely homesick?" The tone of uncertainty in Kai's voice did nothing to quell the awful premonition rising in the King's gut.

"Perhaps…" Henrik murmured, but already his mind was involuntarily imagining scenarios much darker than simple homesickness. Had there been some political dispute? Worse, had someone become hurt? Try as he might, the King could not stop his mind's eye from flashing back to a night several years ago, the frigid spikes of ice bursting out from the wood of his son's door sharp enough to impale...

_It might not have been members of _my_ family that were hurt._

The pen fell from Henrik's fingers with a dull thump.

"Your Majesty?" asked Kai, studying the King's face with a keen, worried gaze.

Henrik rose, pushing in his chair with one firm motion. "Prepare an entourage, Kai. I am travelling to the harbour, immediately."

* * *

It is dark. The shutters are drawn, the windows thrust open, but the sky beyond is black and starless, the wind blowing in hot and suffocating. The bedsheets are twisted beneath him, tangled in his legs, knotted in his trembling fists.

There is a creaking deep in the gloom. A draught of air touches his face.

Then come the footsteps.

_Pad. Pad. Pad._

The sound of soft shoes on hard flooring. They move closer, ever closer. A hooded figure melts from the darkness, growing larger, looming over him. He tries to flee, to run, but he cannot move, why can't he _move?_ He tries to raise his arms, but they are leaden. He tries to scream, but his throat will not obey. The assassin raises a shadowy arm, the glint of steel at the tip dripping with viscous, crimson liquid…

* * *

_Knock. Knock._

Thomas bolted upright, a hand snapping out instinctively toward the source of the sound. There was a deafening blast, arctic wind howling across the room like the lashing of icy whips. The knocking stopped immediately. The young prince slowly lowered his trembling arm, trying to steady his breathing after the panic of the nightmare.

_Just a dream. It was just a dream._

When he raised his gaze once more, he found the door of his room glazed over in a jagged sheet of ice, frost bursting outward from the doorframe like desiccated vines. Before the young prince could groan, someone rattled the frozen handle from the other side.

"Thomas? Thomas, open the door!" His mother's voice came muffled through wood and ice, filled with unmistakable worry.

Thomas screwed shut his eyes, trying to will the ice to melt away. But he was still too perturbed from his dark dream; he was only able to force a spiderweb of cracks to spread across the frozen door. The ice splintered, raining crystal shards upon the wooden flooring, the hinges freed at last. The door swung open with a bang. His mother stood upon the other side in a flowing navy dress, her platinum hair done up in a simple bun. Her eyes widened as she took in the frost creeping up the walls, the chunks of ice slowly sliding to the floor. Finally, her ice blue gaze fixed upon her son's.

"Thomas… did you have another nightmare?"

The young prince paused, then nodded mutely.

"The a… assassin again?"

Another nod.

His mother stepped forward, wrapping him in a comforting embrace.

"Oh, Thomas," she murmured, stroking the young prince's hair. "You are safe now. You're _safe_. There is nothing to fear."

"I know, Mother," Thomas said into his mother's soft shoulder. "I know."

His mother slowly pulled away, holding his shoulders in her hands. "The past is in the past, right?"

The young prince gave a weak smile. Suddenly, there came the pitter-patter footsteps of someone in a great hurry coming down the hall outside. His aunt burst into the room, flushed, slightly out of breath, and practically vibrating with excitement.

"_Land ho!_" she beamed in exaltation, before fully noticing the scene before her.

"Oh," she spoke after a pause, her expression fading to one of consternation. Her gaze moved between mother and son. "Did Tom…?"

Elsa simply nodded. Before Thomas himself could utter a word, his aunt had enveloped him in an embrace of her own. The young prince stiffened a little in surprise, but just as quickly relaxed. When he laughed again, the sound was completely genuine.

"Alright, alright! I'm fine now."

"Are you sure?" his aunt half-teased, giving him a shake.

"Absolutely." And indeed he was, because when Anna finally pulled away, there was not a shard of ice left in the bedroom.

* * *

The light wind carried with it the fresh scent of fish and sea salt. Gulls wheeled above, calling out with their piercing cries, occasionally swooping down in white blurs to try their luck with the wizened fishermen unloading their bloated nets onto the quays below. Henrik's black stallion shook his mane, sniffing at the air and giving a neigh, hooves pawing the cobbles beneath. Kai rode alongside, looking slightly nervous saddled upon his hazel mare despite how smoothly the steed cantered along. The sounds of the guards' steeds' hooves followed not far behind them.

"That's right, Magnus, my boy," the King said, patting his horse's strong flank. "We're here."

Arendelle Harbour lay before the entourage, already alive and bustling with morning activity. Ships came and went, sails and flags of all shapes and colours billowing in the warm beginnings of an onshore breeze, speckling the fjord like gems upon the calm water. The King stopped where the cobbled road gave way to the smoother stone and wood of the piers, ordering his guards to do the same.

"We shall continue on foot from here."

Henrik stepped from his horse, brushing the animal's sleek mane with a hand. Kai did so as well, flopping from his saddle in a rather ungainly fashion. The King could not suppress a smile of amusement when he heard his advisor give the barest sigh of relief. The guards behind them dismounted with practiced coordination, boots meeting the street as one. The King beckoned to two of the uniforms, handing to one the reins of his stallion.

"Take the horses back to the stables. I'm sure my family and I will manage the walk back to the castle."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

The men bowed, taking the reins from their comrades and leading the group of horses back up the teeming road. Henrik strode across the harbour, guards and Kai in tow. In spite of the lack of his ceremonial crown, most of the townspeople recognized their king on sight; men bowed and women curtsied deeply as the entourage passed by.

_I am the King_, Henrik thought to himself, as he put on a smile for his subjects. The fact still awed him, two and a half decades after his marriage and coronation. In his birthplace of the Northern Isles, he had been but a nephew of the Emperor—not even a particularly favoured one at that—and the prospect of becoming a sovereign had been as distant as the stars themselves. Yet here he was.

_How things do change._

Their arrival at the shipmaster's office pulled the King from his memories. Kai knocked on the iron-framed door. The small metal peephole slid open, followed immediately by the click of a turning handle. The shipmaster himself was a grizzled old man, face lined with age, body leaning heavily upon a polished wooden cane. He began an awkward bow upon seeing his king, but Henrik stopped him with a hand.

"No need for that," he said gently.

The shipmaster's expression became one of amusement, if mild indignation. "I'm not quite _that _old, Sire."

"Forgive His Majesty," Kai put in with a wry smile. "The number of men who bow to him per day surpasses the amount of corn in a field!"

"Now you're making me sound ungrateful," retorted Henrik, though in equally good humour.  
The advisor spread his arms wide. "Merely stating the truth, Sire."

Observing the exchange, the shipmaster chuckled. "Well, in any case, I already have a good idea of what brings you here, my king."

"Oh?"

"The _Albatross _is on the horizon, isn't she?" The aged man adjusted his glasses, regarding the charts strewn across his small table. "It is written here…" the shipmaster murmured, tracing a gnarled finger across one of the documents, "that she'll be docking at Pier Six, once she arrives."

Henrik nodded in satisfaction. "Thank you, shipmaster. We shall disturb you no further."

The man gave another creaking bow before the King could object. "Always a pleasure to serve, Your Majesty."

With a final smile for the shipmaster, Henrik lead his entourage across the harbour to the wharf the man had mentioned. The quay was vacant, the _Albatross'_ sails still to crest the horizon andnot yet in sight from the low vantage of the pier. The King stood as if a statue at the edge of the sea, gazing intently over the windswept waters of the fjord. Kai stood at his side, equally silent, the Royal Guards fanning out in a phalanx behind them. Slowly, a glimmer of white and gold appeared in the distance, growing steadily in Henrik's vision until the shining crocus upon the canvas was unmistakable. The small crowd of townspeople who had gathered at a respectful distance from the entourage suddenly came alive.

"It flies the Crocus!"

"So it is true! The Queen has come home!"

"The Queen has come home!"

It was as if a wave swept over the crowd; a wave of voices, rising in excitement, spreading the glorious news.

"Queen Elsa has returned!"

"The royal family is back at last!"

In the midst of the buzz of eager anticipation around him, Henrik remained sombre and expressionless, his steel irises staring unblinkingly out at the approaching sails. The turmoil within his mind had returned full force, impossible scenarios and images flashing like lightning behind his eyes—cold, bleak, and just as painful. Dimly, he felt a hand come to rest upon his shoulder. He looked to Kai, surprise momentarily jarring him from his dark reverie.

"You worry too much about what is out of your control," stated the portly advisor before the King could speak.

After a heavy pause, Henrik sighed. "How can you say that, Kai? How can I _not_ worry when all who are dearest to me are subjected to forces beyond my control?"

Kai merely shrugged. "Worry is fine, healthy even. But worrying does nothing to help a problem that cannot be solved."

"I think I've read that somewhere or other."

What Kai did next was something completely unexpected. He cupped a gloved hand under the King's chin, smiling at his sovereign's shocked expression.

"Chin up, Sire. Your family is _coming home_. Rejoice!"

Henrik stared at his advisor for a long moment. Then, finally, a tentative smile broke over the King's own features.

"_Sound the trumpets!_" he commanded in a booming voice, raising his arms to address his gathered subjects. "_Our royal family has returned to Arendelle!_"

Kai's smile deepened a touch.

* * *

The magnificent mountains ringing Arendelle were in clear view now, the points of grey and white rising majestically from the water, eternal sentinels of the kingdom glowering down upon the _Albatross _as it moved into their shadow. The castle grew in the distance, shining in the sun like some ancient, godly crown, the flags upon the towers waving in the wind to welcome the royals home.

The salty spray from the bow hung in the air, flecks of white rushing to meet Thomas at the gunwale. The hull tilted as it rose to the crest of the wave, pitching downwards in a sudden fall as the prow met the water once more. A wayward breeze blew in from the east, mussing the young prince's hair and making the hems of his light jacket billow. But there was no rapture, no sense of exhilaration. Not anymore. He didn't know where the euphoria had all gone, but it simply was no longer there. The sea had no effect on him now; it hadn't since they left Corona.

Absentmindedly, he traced the faded scar upon his neck, just to the right of his throat. He shivered, though not from the cold. He was never cold.

The prow came crashing down again, harder than the times before, sending a storm of droplets into the air. Thomas watched with detached fascination as the water solidified at the barest prompt of his will, raining down upon the deck like hailstones, rolling across the planks in a scattering of icy pebbles.

"Impressive," said a voice beside him. The young prince whirled to find Christopher standing to his left, already stooping to pick up one of the frozen spheres of seawater.

"I wouldn't do that…" Thomas began, but his cousin had already dropped the piece of ice with a gasp, cursing as he bent over in pain. "...if I were you," the young prince finished lamely, wincing.

Christopher shot Thomas a deathly glare as he nursed his cold fingers. Thomas, in turn, couldn't help but laugh. However, that laughter faded quickly as he noticed the look on his cousin's face.

"So," Christopher ventured, voice still slightly strained, "I heard you had another one of your… episodes, this morning."

Thomas groaned audibly. "Is this what this is about? Because you could well have come clean without injuring your fingers."

His cousin crushed the offending piece of ice under his foot in response, if only to stall his reply. "Mother is worried about you," he said slowly. "_Anna and I _are worried about you. No doubt Aunt Elsa herself is worried _sick_…"

"Alright, I get the picture," interrupted the young prince, a touch of weariness in his tone. He sighed; a sound of undisguised resignation.

"In truth… The truth is, I don't even know what's wrong. I just can't shake the image of him! The helplessness and _panic_ I felt that night… I—I just can't get it out of my _head!_" Thomas was pacing now, unable to stay still in his frustration. Flowers of frost sprouted beneath his feet, his coattails undulating around his knees with wind that grew more frigid by the second.

"And it's so much worse at night! It's like he's _there _again, Chris. I can practically _feel _his presence, _feel _his blade cutting into my skin…"

Hands suddenly grabbed hold of both his shoulders, giving him a vigorous shake. Thomas looked at his older cousin, blinking in surprise and shock.

"This isn't like you, Tom," Christopher stated bluntly. "Remember that lion one of the eastern kingdoms brought as a gift to your father?"  
"And?"

"You didn't bat an eye at it! Not even when you got too close to the cage and the thing actually _lunged _at you! How is this any different? How come this has gotten you so afraid when the lion didn't?"

In response, Thomas turned so the scar on his neck was clearly visible.

"_This_," he said, pointing stiffly to the ragged line of flesh, "is why. The lion may have been a fearsome beast, but it never posed any _real_ danger to me. The assassin nearly _killed _me, Chris! I can't let go of something like that!"

"You can't, or you _won't?_"

The young prince stared back at his cousin. "What are you saying?"

"What I'm saying is, have you _tried?_ Have you _tried _letting it go?"

"I…" Thomas' voice trailed off to silence. Because, now that he realized it, the truth was that he _hadn't_ tried. He had been too caught up doing battle with an implacable yet intangible foe, when, in reality, the foe of his own imagination.

_Rationalize._

What was it Sir Gingivere had said? True courage was learning to put aside those fears that would hinder oneself. There was no solution to a problem that didn't exist. The only remedy was to put aside said problem altogether.

Christopher must have guessed at the silent exchange behind Thomas' glazed eyes, for he smiled knowingly. "Try," he said simply, clapping the young prince on the back.

At that moment, the clear call of royal trumpets drifted to their ears from the nearing shore. The ropes above tautened, the masts groaning as if in attempt to hasten their imminent arrival. The Captain's bellowing voice came down from the helm.

"_You hear that? They see us!_"

Heavy footsteps sounded behind the two cousins.

"I hope I am correct in my assumption that you've had enough 'time alone', Master Thomas?"

The young prince smiled sheepishly to his icy guardian. "As it turns out, time alone was never the solution, after all."

A grating sound that might have been laughter emanated from the knight's helmet. "I knew you would come around eventually."

"And none too soon!"

"Mother!" Thomas' complexion reddened a tinge. "You heard all of that?"

"Hard not to, given how loudly you were raving." There was undeniable consternation written across her face, despite her teasing tone. "Is… Was it really that bad?" she asked gingerly, voice dropping almost to a whisper.

The young prince lowered his gaze. "I… I thought you were worried enough, as it was."

His mother's eyes were stern. "Thomas, if there is one thing I've learned in all my years and experiences, it's to never, _never _keep those dark emotions pent up inside. Promise me you won't keep anything like this from me again."

"I promise, Mother."

"Good." The Snow Queen raised her hands to the sky, a magical light already threading through her slender fingers. "Now, will you help me put on a show?"

"I suppose." Thomas shot his hand upwards, a massive Crocus of Arendelle materializing far above in the azure sky. It floated suspended for a moment, glittering in the sunlight, before exploding in a shower of snowflakes, dissipating away in the warm breeze.

His mother tilted her head, judging the display.

"Not bad," she said with a wry smile, before letting her arms fall gracefully downwards, the light at the tips of her fingers arcing out past the railings into the fjord below. Immediately, the clear waters erupted, frothing and foaming as two translucent bowsprits thrusted up from the depths. Water sloughing from their hulls, two enormous ships nearly the size of the _Albatross _itself slid fully formed from the fjord, cruising abreast with the galleon like the royal escort frigates they were evidently modeled from, frozen sails flapping in the wind. Elsa brought her arms together before her, and the icy frigates followed her command, crossing in front of the _Albatross' _prow and turning sideways, giving the spectators on land a full view of the dual broadsides of magical fireworks that exploded from the ships before they themselves exploded into infinite shards of glass, returning to the fjord in fountaining cascades of ice. The cheers and applause from the shore were deafening even upon the deck of the galleon.

Christopher's jaw was flapping on loose hinges. Thomas, for his part, merely imitated his mother.

"Not bad," he said with a nod, arms folded over his chest. "Could have saved it for another occasion, though. How are you going to top _that _for the Yuletide Ball?"

"Oh, I'll think of something," his mother replied with a grin.

The trumpets continued their welcoming fanfare as the galleon finally drew into port, the captain ordering the sailors to hoist the sails and prepare to drop anchor. The entire royal family was at the gunwale now, Anna waving and shouting whilst trying to get her regal and motionless sister to do the same, her husband looking just a little bit flushed under the enthusiastic gazes of a kingdom's people. Christopher and Annabeth had no qualms about flirting with the crowd almost as outrageously as their mother did, and Thomas couldn't help but chuckle at their antics. The sun was high in the sky now, casting a warm haze over the entire scene.

It was good to be home.

There was a light thump as the edge of the _Albatross' _hull met the quay, the workers on the shore coming alive to help the deckhands secure the thick mooring ropes. The anchors dropped into the fjord with the crisp clicking of falling chains. Silently, the Royal Guards who had accompanied the family on their journey marched out onto the deck, forming a wall of grey behind the rising gangplank.

Unanimously, the crowd of townspeople parted respectfully before a lone man and his companion, several stern uniforms trailing in their wake. King Henrik took Elsa's hand as she walked down to the ground, happiness at her safe return practically radiating from his features. Kai welcomed the rest of the family with broad arms and a broader grin, even as professional as it was. Amidst the exultation as the rest of the royals strode onto the quay at last, only Thomas noticed his mother lean in to his father as if for a kiss. Only he noticed the slight movement of her lips over his ear, and the way his father stiffened. But everyone noticed how the glow of joy suddenly fell from the King's face, leaving storm in its stead.

At a hard gesture of Henrik's hand, the small army of Royal Guards fanned out from the gangplank in a wave, swiftly enclosing the royals in a tight, protective formation. There was a sharp ringing of steel as the uniforms on the outside circle drew swords, the butts of halberds hitting the cement ground with dull clacks. Now the townspeople knew something was amiss. A hubbub began to grow, panicked villagers frantically searching for a threat that wasn't there. But no action was taken to calm the crowd.

The massive entourage marched on toward the castle, citizens scattering before it like water before its bladed keel. At the head of the guards, Thomas could espy Kai trying to speak to his father, who continued in his mechanical gait, unresponsive as a brick wall and just as emotionless. The young prince didn't have to guess at the maelstrom within his father's mind at the moment. The situation was beyond them all. The joy of their homecoming was utterly gone, snuffed out like a candle in the blizzard of the dark and tragic news they bore. And try as he might, there was no shaking the bitter sense of trepidation beginning to rise in Thomas' heart.

_The past will not stay in the past for long._

He was partly right. Indeed, the past was hardly past at all.

* * *

_**Author's note: Many people have shrewdly commented upon my deviation from British tradition in making Henrik King Regnant even though Elsa would rightfully be the reigning queen according the current British system. My reason for this can be as convoluted as you wish to make it, but is really quite simple in actuality: Arendelle is not Britain.**_

_**Got any thoughts? Go ahead and put them in that conveniently-placed review box down there!**_


	25. Uncertainty

_**Disclaimer: I own this work of fanfiction, but not the movie from which it stems.**_

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**Chapter 25: Uncertainty**

Marcus felt the hull shudder as it bumped into the edge of a pier, the floor below his legs calming in its constant listing. There was a brief commotion above as chains clicked and voices raised, the deck groaning beneath footfalls moving portside. Then, silence.

They had arrived.

Jericho's men had bound him hand and foot for most of the journey, only twice a day loosing his arms to feed him a lukewarm, tasteless gruel in a shallow wooden bowl. There had never been a spoon provided, and the assassin had been forced to make do with his hand, scraping the mush into his mouth with his right whilst balancing the bowl as best as he could upon the stump that remained of his left. The guards only watched, leering down upon him in his frustration and torment. Then they would bind his arms once more without so much as letting him wipe his gruel-stained fingers upon his grubby clothes.

Thus the time had passed, the swaying of the floor embedding its rhythm into his very soul. How many days, how many nights, Marcus had no way of knowing. He slept when he felt like; he ate when they fed him. Jericho did not show his face again, and not once did a chance of escape present itself; there was always a guard outside the door. Besides, where could he have escaped _to_? Beyond the ship lay only endless sea.

The deathly monotony had had him ready to scream.

Now the door to Marcus' section of the brig clicked open, two heavyset men marching in and checking his bonds. Apparently satisfied, one unceremoniously slung the captive over his shoulder like a sack of flour, effortlessly carrying the assassin out the door. Marcus kicked and struggled, spitting insults at the man's broad back, only to receive a strip of rough fabric tied around his mouth for his efforts. The two brutes strode up to the deck, the stairs moaning in protest beneath their feet. A dozen men clad in white uniforms awaited, gleaming hilts protruding unhidden from their belts. Guards, and official ones, by the look of them.

Before Marcus had so much as the chance to look around, he was thrown heavily to the deck, his arms immediately grabbed by two uniformed men and his body hauled to half-standing. They didn't even give him the liberty of walking on his own; the guards dragged the assassin's struggling form down the gangplank, frog-marching him across the quay and shoving him into a waiting prison carriage. There was a piercing whistle, the windowless walls of the carriage interior jittering as hooves began to sound from outside. The vehicle trundled forward at a brisk pace, each bump in the road a spine-jarring shudder to the captive Marcus within. Worse yet, the ropes were cutting off the circulation to his lower arms, numbing his right hand and causing phantom pains to flare where his left used to be. The assassin bit his gag to stave off the discomfort. Even the cloth was rough and grimy, tasting of salt and oil; but at least it was something to focus on.

_I have landed now. I must stay vigilant._

Jericho may have saved him from the worst in Corona, but this new kingdom was exactly that: new, and unfamiliar. Obviously, Jericho himself was a man of many means and resources here; it wouldn't be surprising if he worked closely with whatever sitting king ruled this nation. Which meant he was one of _them_. One of those bastards who lorded over the common people, regarding them as mere pawns to suit their own selfish purposes. Marcus would hold no allegiance to him. He owed Jericho only enough not to stab him in his sleep.

He would make a break for it the first chance he got.

The carriage bumped over another hole in the road, the axles under the iron floor groaning with the strain. It was only then that Marcus noticed how quiet it was inside. He shuffled about the best he could and, sure enough, his was the only compartment in the carriage. They had spared an entire heavily-armoured prison vehicle for the transportation of his lone self. Either they were grossly overestimating his jailbreaking prowess…

Or he was something important to them. Too important to take any chances with. Too important to have let die.

_They're using me_, the assassin thought with contempt. Then, _they need_ _me. _A slow smile crept across his face. So he did have some leverage, after all. Leverage was as good as any weapon in his inventory.

The shuddering of the carriage lessened noticeably, and Marcus could feel the horses being pushed to even greater speed. The metal-rimmed wheels rolled over the smooth path below, the sound suddenly becoming hollow and resonant. They were crossing a bridge. The name Jericho had uttered after his interrogation—could he even call it that?—with Marcus came to mind. The Southern _Isles_. Could he, in fact, be travelling across islands at the moment? He cursed the opaque walls of the carriage, the sense of oppression and infuriating confusion they brought. He'd known the streets of Corona like the back of his hand; now, he didn't even know whether the road beneath him consisted of dirt or cobble.

As if purposefully adding to his torment, the clicking of the wheels below suddenly changed in tempo. The road was evidently of much better quality now, and the carriage cruised along as if upon oiled rails. After a few more moments, the horses slowed, muffled voices of men carrying to Marcus' ears. Then came the metallic thud of a heavy latch being raised, the sound of massive gates swinging open on well-oiled hinges. The carriage rolled onward at a slower pace, each click of the wheel rims upon the floor beneath resonating through the metal interior.

_Like a clock. _But as to what awaited him at the end of the countdown, the assassin had no idea.

Another latch, another gate, this one opening without question. The carriage slowed to a final halt, the doors slamming firmly shut behind it. There was the sound of a key being turned within a padlock, and the heavy iron door to Marcus' mobile prison cell slid open to reveal another contingent of uniformed guards in wait. Two reached in and hauled the captive out, one roughly untying and removing the now saliva-soaked gag from Marcus' mouth. The assassin's eyes rushed to take in the sun-baked courtyard around them as he was marched from the carriage, pressing him to kneel upon the warm bricks. Polished black shoes strolled nearer in Marcus' low view, coming to a neat stop half a metre away from him. The heavy hands of the guards abruptly left his shoulders, leaving the assassin free to raise his gaze.

"I expect you are able to walk without assistance." A statement, not a question.

"Jericho, you son of a whore," Marcus growled.

The man remained impassive as ever. "I'll overlook your vulgarity this once. We have an audience with the King, and we shan't be late!" Marcus thought he saw Jericho's eyes gleam with an ironic light, but when he looked again, the expression was gone. The man gestured to the guards behind the assassin. "Blindfold him."

A strip of cloth—a new one this time—was wrapped tightly around Marcus' eyes.

"Wouldn't want a lowlife like me knowing the interior of the palace, would you?" the assassin spat. There came no reply except a hard shove on his back.

"Get moving, prisoner!" ordered the guard behind him.

The walk was just as long as Marcus expected; which was to say, very long. They lead him around corner after corner, through corridor after corridor, and his sight-deprived mind quickly gave up trying to make sense of the labyrinth of halls. Every once in a while, the assassin's ears would register the frantic whispering of those the entourage passed, the occasional squeals as servants beheld his unkempt form. His lip curled in disgust.

_Pampered brats._

A set of doors sounded before them. Then another. The guards' footsteps began to echo as they entered a large chamber, the light filtering through the cloth over Marcus' eyes greatening in intensity. The voices of two men locked in discussion reached his ears, their words rebounding off the walls around.

"...Weselton, and animosity towards them would most certainly result in conflict!"

"So we remove by force a thorn long stuck in our side! I fail to see the folly in such action."

Both voices cut off as the entourage drew nearer.

"We shall continue this discussion at a later time," stated the second, more authoritative voice.

Suddenly, a herald shouted from the other side of the chamber.

"All kneel before His Royal Majesty, King Mathias the Second, Supreme Ruler of the Southern Isles!"

Marcus rolled his eyes behind his blindfold as he was forced to the floor yet again. _I can't even see the bloody man._

"Welcome, Spymaster," exclaimed the voice, false cheerfulness oozing from its tone. "I see you have brought the assassin. Whom, if Joseph spoke correctly, you went to such _risky_ lengths to acquire."

"Your Majesty," returned Jericho, apparently unfazed by the sovereign's criticism. "I have brought before you Marcus Everett, the would-be-assassin of the heir to the throne of Arendelle, as His Highness Prince Joseph requested."

"And I see you have blindfolded the man," said the King. "Are you so insecure about the competence of our Guard that you fear his imminent escape?"

"As you yourself are well aware, Your Majesty, there is no sense in taking _unnecessary risks_." There was an edge to the Spymaster's voice now. "And as his previous actions in Corona certainly show, it would be unwise to underestimate this man."

Marcus couldn't help a wry smile from spreading across his features. So he was a man of some infamy, after all.

The King must have noticed the expression upon the captive's face. "Free the man's eyes," he ordered. "And cut his bonds. He will try nothing here."

The assassin's arms were seized, the knots in the ropes binding them roughly undone. The cloth was whipped away from his eyes, leaving him blinking in the sudden light of the crystal chandeliers above. The chamber was large indeed, its domed roof rising to soaring heights, the paintings covering it lit to harsh intensity by the lights dangling below. Before Marcus sat an older man robed in royal silk, clean-shaven, the glimmering crown upon his flowing hair engraved with symbols of an unknown language. Three fleur-de-lys sprouted from the top of the golden ring, branching out from one another, connected at their stems. Beside him stood another man dressed in an elaborately embroidered emerald suit, younger but evidently a brother of the King by the similar contours of their faces. Both men gazed down upon Marcus with scrutinizing eyes, the King with intensity, the prince with apparent amusement.

"Marcus Everett," intoned King Mathias. "What a pleasure to meet you at last." The assassin stared back in silence.

The man in the suit eyed the bandages enrobing the end of Marcus' left arm, curiosity gleaming in his eyes.

"Did the prince actually _blast _your hand off?"

"Frostbite," replied Jericho.

"I was asking _him_."

Marcus saw the King raise an eyebrow at the statement, but the sovereign merely pursed his lips, nodding—with more than a slight hint of irony—for the assassin to speak.

"His doctor cut my hand off," Marcus stated bluntly, gesturing to the Spymaster with a tilt of his head.

"Did he now?" said the King, giving Jericho a glance. "Well, in that case, I'm surprised you're alive at all."

As if in response, a sudden bout of pain flared at the site of amputation, causing the assassin to stagger under its weight. None of the men seemed to notice.

"Your Majesty," said Jericho, his dark eyebrows locked over his eyes. "Let us not further squander our limited time. The question is not whether we should use Everett to our advantage against Weselton, but _how._"

_So that's what I'm for_, thought Marcus. _All the better. But I'll make them work for it, nonetheless._

Another searing bolt of pain lanced up the assassin's arm, doubling him over as he clenched his teeth.

"Ah, yes," said King Mathias in an offhand tone. "But that is a discussion best continued behind closed doors, without _compromising ears_, agreed?"

A ragged groan ripped itself from Marcus' throat as the pain intensified as if a blade were being twisted within his flesh, shards of white agony worming their way through his very veins. Instinctively, his right hand came to clutch at the stump of his left arm. It came away moist.

"By God, what did your doctor do to dress the wound?" the prince's voice exclaimed.

"Resources were limited," replied the Spymaster calmly.

"No matter!" The King's voice this time, laced with a tone of undeniable urgency. "Get him to a doctor _now_. We cannot have this valuable asset dying on us!"

As if through thick cloth, Marcus felt himself being lifted from the floor by all four limbs. Cool air washed over his feverish skin as he was whisked through the halls, the ceiling becoming an incomprehensible blur as it moved across his vision. A door slammed somewhere in the distance. Shouting voices registered in his ears, but he couldn't understand their words.

A corner. A doorway. The assassin's body was set upon soft sheets, the room around him dark and windowless, firelight glinting off strange metal instruments. An aged man in obsidian black attire stood to the side, his dark eyes locked upon Marcus', his expression one of surprise. Dimly, the assassin heard three words uttered from above him.

"Heal this man!"

Then there was no resisting the inky darkness that consumed his mind.

* * *

"We cannot protect him forever, Elsa."

In the short several days after the family's homecoming, Henrik had grown sullen and distracted. They all felt it; indeed, the very halls seemed saturated with the King's obvious despair at his son's brush with death. Elsa often found her husband sitting motionless at his desk, gazing out the window, eyes glazed, heavy brows locked in thought. But she knew better than anyone that Henrik was not one to merely sit about and mope.

She had dreaded this discussion for days. Yet, when it came, she was still caught off guard.

"What are you saying, dear?"

Henrik stared back at her for a long moment. Then, her husband took a deep breath.

"What was it that Pabbie said? 'His enemy will be hatred'. What if he wasn't talking about _Thomas' _personal emotions? What if that _hatred _is the hatred of others?"

Elsa frowned. "You're saying whomever sent the assassin after our son did so because of _hatred? _Hatred _alone?_"

Henrik's gaze sharpened to almost frightening intensity. "It certainly is something to think about, isn't it? Sure, politics is often thought of as cold and emotionless, but pull the veil off the whole damned thing, and what do you have? People. And _people_, willingly or not, are driven by emotion."

Elsa couldn't help but lower her gaze ever-so-slightly at the last statement. Her husband, however, seemed too engrossed in his own words to notice.

"Step back for a moment. Look at our son, at his position in the world. Privileged, pampered, heir to the throne of a powerful and prosperous kingdom by mere birthright. Those alone are cause aplenty for resentment! For those few who know of his _gift_, that adds fear into the mix, perhaps even envy and twisted jealousy. All volatile emotions, so easily morphed into _hatred_ of our son!"

Only when he had finished his short spiel did the King notice his wife cringing under the weight of its implications.

"I'm not saying there weren't many_ other_ motives in killing the Crown Prince of Arendelle," Henrik amended in a softer tone. "I'm merely saying that _hate _was a driving force behind _every_ probable motive. Just as stated by Pabbie all those years ago."

"You're trying to convince me of something," Elsa stated, a hint of frost creeping into her voice. "You're never so blunt unless you're trying to prove a point. So get to the point already."

"I've decided to send Thomas for military combat training with the Guard."

It was as if the very air had suddenly been sucked from the room, so frantically did the Queen gasp for breath.

"_What?!_" she yelled the moment she could speak..

"We can protect him, guard him around the clock, but that cannot last! People make mistakes. What if something or some_one _slips through again? _Hatred will be his enemy!_ He must learn to defend himself. The only other option would be to _lock Thomas away _completely, and you know better than anyone else why that is not a viable option."

"So you will teach him to fight back? To _kill _if necessary?"

"Would you rather have had Marcus Everett killed or have had Thomas fall to that villain's blade?"

Elsa stared back at him, icy blue eyes filled with a harsh light of angst and uncertainty.

Henrik sighed. "I know what you fear, love. You're afraid our son's powers will grow out of control, that they will consume him should he ever use them with the intent of harming another…"

"You're going to train him to use his _powers?!_" gasped Elsa, aghast.

Her husband blinked. "Thomas was born with your gift, love. Beautiful though it may be, I think it has applications far beyond conjuring snowmen and skating rinks."

"You would have him use magic with _deadly intent._"

"I will have him do everything in his power to protect his life and his place on the throne!" Henrik's slate eyes locked squarely upon hers, his gaze hard as steel. "His powers are like any other weapon. He can use them however he wants, but he must learn how to _use _them. Not to merely keep them at bay, but to control them, to be their utter and complete master. Only then will he not be in danger of impaling himself upon his own sword. Only then will he truly be _safe!_"

"You say that now," whispered Elsa, "with the assumption that he _can _be trained. But what if one day you find him in his room, silent tears streaking his cheeks, his instructor run through with the icicles he couldn't control? Or worse, one of his cousins? Or _you? _What then?"

Her husband's firm hands gripped her arms below the shoulders. "Elsa, stop this. If we cannot have faith in our own son, then what kind of parents are we? No one ever said it would be easy, but this is the only path. I see that now. The way to protect Thomas is to teach him to protect himself." His hand slowly moved down to clasp with her delicate fingers, his eyes softening. "But I cannot do this without you."

Elsa held his gaze for a timeless moment. Then Henrik felt her body slump against his, a small sigh escaping from her lips. He held her close, burying his face in her platinum hair. "We will do this together," he whispered into her ear.

"Always," she whispered back. They held each other for a while. Finally, Elsa drew back. "I'll take it up with Thomas. We will train him _only _with his complete approval." There was a tinge of resignation to the statement that had Henrik feeling a touch guilty of his victory.

"And I shall ask the Captain of the Guard," said the King. "We'll see if he is up to the task."

His wife gave him a small, wry smile. Then she straightened, her posture returning to its queenly norm, her confident stride betraying nothing of the embers of doubt still searing her from within. The door clicked shut behind her glimmering heel. Henrik stood there for a moment, then absentmindedly went to unclasp the ceremonial sabre from its frame behind his desk. He pulled the blade slowly from its scabbard, running two fingers along the gleaming steel of its side.

He did not know what it was like having magic like his son, but he did know what it was like to wield a weapon inexperienced. He knew the frustration, the panic, the inherent danger. He also knew that, with practice, any blade could be tamed. Could elemental powers really be any different?

He only prayed that limbs and lives would not have be lost before Thomas learned to wield his sword.

* * *

_**Ah, the joy of writing metaphor! Thanks for reading; drop a review if you can!**_


	26. Winds of Conflict

_**Disclaimer: I own naught of the movie.**_

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**Chapter 26: Winds of Conflict**

Weselton had lost none of its splendor in its Duke's absence. A neat little town in the crook of the surrounding green hills it seemed from a distance, the rays of the sun bathing it in the gentle warmth of dawn. From the gunwale of the Swiftwater, the Duke could already make out the concentric squares that were his private villa, the acres of farmland behind it filling with the vibrant colour of the approaching harvest. Despite all that was behind him, the old noble allowed himself a wistful smile of contentment. He was home. That, at least, was something.

The smile, however, was promptly wiped from his face as the _Swiftwater _drew into port. A group of Ducal Guards awaited him upon the pier, at their head the prim, unmistakable form of the State Governor of Weselton; the Duke's little nephew.

"Welcome home, Uncle," the young man called from the shore, extending a hand as the Duke descended the gangplank. "Things went well in Corona, I trust?" Condescendence practically oozed from the governor's plastic grin. The Duke walked straight past his nephew, unable to suppress a sniff of contempt as he declined the proffered hand. Naturally, the governor fell into step right behind him without pause.

"I'll take that as a no. Chin up, Uncle! Weselton will find its legs again, sooner or later." His nephew's smile grew more caustic by the word. "It's only a matter of time now."

"Circumstances beyond my control hindered any possible progress with the Coronan monarchs significantly," the Duke said in a clipped voice. He gestured to one of the mounted uniforms. "Where is my carriage?" he demanded.

"Already awaiting at the harbour entrance," answered the guard smoothly. "If Your Grace would kindly follow." The uniform rode off at a slow pace down the quay. The Duke strutted after with the entourage of guards from his ship, pointedly not turning to face the smug face of the governor beside him.

His carriage was indeed there, door tilted open in welcome, the driver dismounting and bowing respectfully as the Duke approached. The old noble stepped into the luxurious leather interior, extending an ironic hand to his nephew, his smile as cold as the Snow Queen's ice. The man took it with a stiff smile of his own. The Duke felt a hint of satisfaction at the hint of nervousness in his nephew's expression.

_I still have some power, after all._

"To the villa, if you please," he called to the driver. The carriage rolled forward, the spring-loaded shock absorbers attached to the axles negating the roughness of the cobbles below. Nonetheless, a shadow passed over the Duke's face as he watched the city pass by through the windows. Could a scarce two decades have brought about so much change? He could remember it like yesterday; the gleaming, immaculate buildings, the streets bustling with people from every nation, the harbour full to bursting, ships bringing the wealth of the world into Weseltonian coffers…

Now the houses were derelict and empty, and rats scurried across the roads that were once filled with nobility. Truncated trade and citizen exodus had taken their brutal toll.

How far they had fallen. A splendor they were now only from afar. The Duke pinched his nose and sighed, bowing his head in shame and regret.

There was a creaking sound in front of the carriage as the gates to the villa swung open before them. The vehicle trundled to a stop, the driver opening the side door with a bow of courtesy to its passengers. The Duke exited first, inhaling the scent of ripening apples seeping from the trees in the picturesque orchard surrounding them. Another group of Ducal Guards stood in wait, stiffening to attention in their sovereign's presence.

The governor exited the carriage behind his uncle.

"So, when is His Grace planning on holding the conference to discuss the events in Corona?"

The Duke gritted his teeth, forcing himself to remain in his confident posture.

"Pardon an old man," he replied curtly, "but I've had a long voyage, and I am tired. We shall discuss what needs to be discussed no sooner than tomorrow." His nephew nodded, an unreadable expression upon his face. Without another word, the Duke strode toward the far end of the courtyard, the guards trailing dutifully after their charge.

His steward came tumbling from the doors ahead, opening his mouth to welcome his master home.

"Save your florid words for the council!" the Duke snapped before Gilbert could speak. "Just go get me a platter of buttered scones with a cup of hot tea." The portly servant scrambled to did as bid, before remembering to turn back around and give a hasty bow.

"And my study had better be _exactly _as I left it!" the Duke yelled at the retreating form of the steward's back.

The inside of the villa did seem to have been left undisturbed for a while. An air of tranquility presided over its halls, portraits of dukes past looking down from the walls with overbearing smiles. The current Duke found his eyes drawn to the last painting in the corridor—the portrait of a dignified-looking man with a chocolate brown moustache, spectacles perched upon a nose like an eagle's beak. He raised a hand in front of him, comparing the man in the picture's smooth tanned skin to that of his wrinkled, mottled appendage.

_Father time has not been kind, _the Duke thought with resentment. _Not to me. Not to my duchy._

_But, then again, is he ever?_

The entourage turned the final corner to the Duke's study. Another guard was already stationed at the entrance, pulling the door open to admit his charge. The Duke stepped through the doorway, motioning over his shoulder for his remaining guards to disperse. The door was shut once more behind him. With groaning of relief from his aching frame, the Duke sat down at his desk, the familiar shape of the seat supporting him eliciting a tang of bitterness in his mind. Here he was again. Another kingdom. Another wonderful scheme. In the end, another ultimate failure.

What irked him was this time, it hadn't been the complete fault of the Snow Queen after all. No, for all his arrogance, the Duke knew all too well that this time, his plans had been cut to tatters by his own blade. He had been too stupid, too rash. He couldn't even blame his assassin. Who would have known the boy would have had that bloody _monster _guarding him?

With a sigh, the Duke turned his gaze down to the documents still cluttering his infernal desk. To his surprise, he found the expected mounds of parchment rearranged into neat stacks upon the tabletop, the fountain pens sitting neatly in their corner holsters. Even the wood of the desk was clean and gleaming with a fresh coat of laminate.

Brow furrowing, the Duke picked suspiciously through the stacks of documents occupying the centre of his workspace. To his dismay, he found every piece of parchment to be foreign to memory. His drafts of trade proposals to the Northern Isles and DunBroch were gone, replaced with new proposals written in flowing calligraphy unlike his own. The Duke read over the two drafts, nearly choking in shock and disgust.

_Why, this is practically handing them all they could want from us on a silver platter, in return for their fickle loyalty!_

It was at that moment that Gilbert barged into the room, hands laden with the Duke's requested tray of scones and tea.

"Set my food down," the Duke ordered, voice low and commanding. The tray met the tabletop with a dull thump, the portly face of the steward becoming noticeably uneasy. Without looking up, the Duke snatched one of the trade proposals from his desk, holding it upwards with a trembling fist. "What is this?" he asked, tone growing cold and deadly.

"A… a trade proposal, Your Grace. Though I wouldn't _begin_ to pretend I am familiar with such things…" Gilbert stuttered.

"A _draft _of a trade proposal," the Duke growled. "A draft written by someone who obviously thought themselves able of _taking over_ my duties while I was gone!" He stared daggers at his steward, slamming the parchment back down upon the desktop. The tea sloshed in its cup. Gilbert stared back fearfully.

"_Who authorized this?!_" the Duke demanded, moustache quivering with rage. "Who thought they had the _authority _to authorize this?"

"I… I tried to warn him of your displeasure, sir!" stammered the steward, playing with the collar of his suit. "But he—"

"_Who?_"

"Governor Klaus, Your Grace." The man swallowed nervously. "He… took it upon himself to act in your stead during Your Grace's absence."

The Duke's thin lips drew to a tight, furious line.

_Damn that man! Damn my idiot brother for even continuing his deplorable heritage! And I thought I would be rid of his pestilence forever…_

_This must have been his bloody plan after all._

"Call a council meeting," the Duke hissed through clenched teeth.

"But… but Your Grace, you just said in the courtyard—"

"Call a council meeting, _now!_"

Gilbert nodded nervously, backing out the door with a stiff bow. "Yes, Your Grace." The door swung shut with a snap.

The Duke slumped back into his seat, fingers kneading his temples wearily. The sovereign's eyes burned like glowing coals.

_We'll see who's the leader of this nation, Klaus. Oh yes, I'll make sure you _never _step out of line again._

He bit into a scone. Alas, the creamy butter was naught but ashes in his mouth.

* * *

The council chamber smelled of dust and lacquer. The seven members of the Council of Weselton sat around the crescent table before the Duke, the men looking grumpy upon being summoned at such short notice. Eighth in their rank was Governor Klaus himself, prim as always in an immaculate black senatorial uniform, expression impassive if slightly smug. The Duke sat in the centre facing them all, his high-backed chair stiff and uncomfortable.

_My damn spine is already getting sore…_

He raised a hand in the already silent room, signalling the start of the conference. All heads turned to regard the Duke. He cleared his throat.

"Gentlemen, I have called all you here today to address certain events that transpired during my… _attendance_ of the Crown Prince of Corona's birthday ceremonies," he began.

"Welcome home, Your Grace," one of the councilmen exclaimed immediately. The others hastily followed suit, each murmuring their own halfhearted welcomes. The Duke glanced at the source of the first voice. It was the youngest member of the council, Senator Leon—a gaunt man with a pasty face and an oily smile.

_Always quick to impress, that one,_ the Duke mused. He mentally added the councilman to his list of people to coax into his palm. He smiled widely to everyone.

"Thank you for your words of welcome," he greased, making sure to lock eyes with the man who first spoke.

_Let him think he has my favour_.

"Now, down to business. It has come to my attention that during my absence, my nephew was left in charge of the ducal duties. Is that correct?" The Duke allowed a hint of ice to slip into his tone. Some of the members of council shifted uncomfortably.

"Well, we knew you would be absent from your chair for a considerable length of time," began Senator Michael, an older man with greying hair. "We had to appoint the most appropriate substitute. As next in line for the chair, would you not consider Governor Klaus to be most viable?"

The Duke gave the man a withering glare. "By the edits he made to my trade proposals, I would say he has a fair amount of training ahead of him yet before he is even _close _to prepared for the role of Duke," he stated coldly. Klaus, to his credit, made no attempt to speak.

"I trust none of the governor's proposals were actually _sent?_"

"No, Your Grace," Senator Michael replied quickly. "We await Your Grace's permission."

"Wisely done," returned the Duke with a nod of satisfaction. He glanced his nephew out the corner of his eye. The governor's expression was still impassive, but the tone of smugness had been replaced by simmering rage, his cheeks coloured with fresh rouge. The Duke smiled to himself.

_Learn your place, little nephew. You can lead when I'm dead._

"What about your experiences abroad? Were you successful in establishing an agreement with Corona?" It was Senator Theodore who spoke this time. The Duke could not stop a flash of annoyance from leaking into his expression.

"I was getting to that!" he snapped. Nevertheless, he took a deep breath to further stall his response.

"I was making good progress with negotiations initially," the Duke began slowly. "But several… unfortunate happenings… hindered the results. First, the royal family of Arendelle also happened to attend the ceremonies, and their presence proved to be a large distraction for the Coronan royals, making business with them difficult."

"How so?" interjected Governor Klaus.

"In the manner expected of having relatives on temporary visit!" the Duke growled. "Obviously, however," he amended, quickly recomposing himself, "that was the _minor_ of the two occurrences…" He paused. His next words would hold the world of importance for his lasting place on the chair.

For he had decided long before his return that the truth would never be known. The assassin was gone, and with it, all evidence against him. The act of incriminating himself was unthinkable, even if his cause had been just. Even if his target had barely the right to be called human.

The Snow Queen was a threat, plain and simple. Now that she had demonstrated her ability to pass along her abominable magic, the entire royal family became doubly dangerous. No matter that everyone else had been pacified by Queen Elsa's falsehoods and lies. The Duke saw the truth. Even if _she _was content with peace, who was to say her heir would be? Or the heirs of her heir? As long as monstrosities like the Snow Queen persisted in the world, wielding their implacable magic, there would be no certainty. There would be no peace.

_I will put an end to this madness, if it is the last thing I do._

The councilmen waited for the Duke to continue, several shifting impatiently in their seats. The sovereign stared hard into each of their eyes.

"On the night of the Crown Prince's birthday, an assassination attempt was made. Not against Warner Fitzherbert himself, but against another prince who was also in the palace at the time. Needless to say, the possibility of further negotiations with the royalty of Corona was completely destroyed in the ensuing chaos." The Duke shrugged his shoulders, as if in defeat. "Once it was clear that no further progress could be made, I could do nothing but set sail for home."

Immediately, the councilmen burst into uproar.

"An assassination attempt? By whom?!"

"And_ against _whom? Who would have had the motivation and the resources to organize a strike in a foreign country?"

"Was the culprit apprehended? Or is he still at large?"

"I would gladly continue if you would all _listen!_" the Duke exclaimed, brow knitting in frustration. The Council gradually fell back into attentive silence.

The sovereign took another breath. "Unfortunately, the assassin… evaded capture, at least for the duration of time that I remained in Corona." A noticeable shudder of unease swept through the members of council at the statement. An idea suddenly flickered into the Duke's mind.

"That being said," he continued in a semi-conspiratorial tone, "I _do _have an idea as to the group who employed the assassin. The target was Prince Thomas of Arendelle." He made a special effort to keep the tone of disgust from his voice. "Furthermore, a _prince of the Southern Isles_ was present during the ceremonies. Wasn't it their Prince Hans that committed those atrocious acts against the Sn… ahem, Queen Elsa all those years ago?"

"Indeed!" exclaimed Senator Leon. "It _must _bethe Southern Isles who did it!" The man's words elicited nods of agreement from his fellow councilmen.

"And wasn't it also _you_, dear Uncle, who attempted to _assassinate _the Queen of Arendelle before the former Prince Hans tried to have her executed?" The tone of accusation in the governor's voice was undeniable. Several of the members of council turned to regard Klaus with shock. The Duke himself razed his nephew with his most fiery of glares.

"Are you accusing _me _of having staged the assassination?!" Tendons stood out in the papery skin of the Duke's neck, so great was his rage. He could only hope the Council perceived it as an act of indignation, rather than proof of the scandalous reality. Swiftly gathering a hold of himself, he eased his body back into his stiff chair, mentally cursing his temper and aching vertebrae.

The governor remained steadfast. "You are quick to accuse the Southern Isles, when a suspicion just as heavy weighs on your own shoulders!"

For not the first time in his arduous life, the Duke wished indeed that looks could kill.

"Of course I would _suspect_ the Southern Isles," he said with deliberate slowness. "And others might suspect _me_. But I cannot be suspicious of _myself _when I clearly know that I was not the one who did it!" The Duke paused, squinting severely down upon his nephew. "Or are you so unsure of your own Duke and uncle to doubt even his _worthiness of trust?_"

Only at those words—under the silent, deadly gaze of the entire Council—did Klaus finally realize his grave mistake.

"I… I was merely stating why it would be unwise to accuse the Southern Isles so promptly," said the governor quietly, giving a slight reluctant bow of his head.

The Duke pretended to smile, though he still seethed inside. "I am truly glad you were not implying what I thought you were implying. It would have been a shame to have had to _decommission_ a young politician like you in his prime for treason, of all things." The noble's tone was cold and merciless. His nephew's eyes flashed defiantly at the barely-veiled threat, but he wisely kept silent.

The Duke turned back to face his council, gesturing with a hand for discussion to continue.

"Untactful… as his words may have been," ventured Senator Michael, "Governor Klaus does give a good point. As word spreads of these… events, we must brace for the weight of accusation to come."

"Furthermore, the Southern Isles themselves may attempt to place false blame upon us, if only to lessen their own burden," added Senator Theodore. "It's only logical."

The Duke nodded gravely. "Indeed, my friends, the stakes have never been higher. For if blame _were _to be successfully forced upon Weselton, Queen Elsa would take no further chances with us. And may I remind you, the life of her _son _was threatened. Not her political integrity, not the prestige of her nation, but her _son_. There is no motivation more primal and fearsome than a mother's desire to protect her children.

"Mark my words, gentlemen. If we are to fail, an icy hell awaits us all."

* * *

He is blind, floundering between searing pain and suffocating blackness. Hands touch him, probe his raw, feverish skin, dabbing cool wetness upon his cheeks, his forehead. He snaps awake in half-crazed panic, body jerking, head whipping wildly about the room. The light burns his eyes. The walls are pressing in. There is a man beside him, a dark, malevolent figure who shouts and grabs, trying to pin him to his bed. He kicks and screams, biting at the gloved fingers that restrict him, bringing forth a sharp curse. His hand… where was his hand?!

Something cold and sharp bites into the skin of his forearm. Then, the darkness smothers his mind once more.

* * *

There is a faint light shining through the opaque veils, growing closer, brighter. He claws at the fog obscuring his mind, trying to grasp at consciousness. But, no, he slips, he is falling, falling again, and the black curtains envelop him.

Then through the gloom bursts a fire, a flare of liquid heat like the iron of a blacksmith. The curtains are aflame. From the inferno rises a figure, fire licking at the hems of its coat, flowing across its chest in flickering ribbons, framing its head like the Devil's horns. Its face becomes visible from the shadows, and its the boy prince, the child sorcerer, only now his eyes glow red, and the light that shoots from his fingers is pure, burning agony…

* * *

Marcus' eyes snapped open, a ragged scream ripping itself from his throat. His aching muscles jerked and clenched, but cords of thick leather held down his limbs, confining him to the bedsheets that were soaked through with his own sweat.

"I'm terribly sorry, but I must do it once more." A voice to his left. The doctor. The man looked down at him with a hard but sympathetic gaze.

"Clench your jaw. We wouldn't want you biting off your tongue."

The agony came again, so much worse in wakefulness. Involuntarily, he strained against his bonds, chest heaving, a cry of pain coming muffled through his teeth. Blearily, his mind registered the acrid smell in the air. The smell of burning flesh.

"There. Now we must wait for it to set."

"Wait… wait for what… to set?" Marcus panted.

"The liquid silver I just applied to the site of amputation."

"_What?_"

The doctor carefully maneuvered the long tongs in his hand, setting the still-smoking iron cup in their grasp onto a stand above a glowing metal contraption.

"Indeed," the man stated, methodically removing his thick leather gloves, finger by finger. "Quite the infection you had going there! Whoever amputated your hand did a horrible job, I must say. But you are evidently important enough to His Majesty for me to use my expensive supply of silver on you. How fortunate of you." The doctor spoke in a nonchalant tone, peering clinically down at Marcus through his small spectacles.

The assassin craned his head to see what had become of his left hand. The flesh at the base of his wrist was raw and red, a gleaming metallic substance coating the end of the stump.

"What kind of a bloody witch doctor are you?!" he yelled, staring in horror at the doctor's work.

"One much more experienced in the art of medicine than you will ever be," the man replied. "But I won't blame you for your ignorance, dear prisoner. There are many men more educated than you who know naught of the marvelous healing properties of silver." The doctor produced an iron rod from the counter behind him, tapping gently at Marcus' stump. Apparently satisfied, he returned the rod to the table.

"Your body should reject the silver within a couple of months," the man explained. "Until then, the metal should stave off any further infection. Try not to pick at the stump, no matter how irritating it becomes." The doctor made for the door.

"I trust you shall return my silver to me once your body is done with it," he said curtly, pulling the door open and admitting four guards in white uniforms. "As for the rest, that is for the King to decide."

_Bloody hell, these guys don't waste time_, Marcus thought bitterly, mind still swimming with pain.

The men quickly freed the assassin from the bed, hoisting up his exhausted body by the armpits and half marching, half dragging him toward the door. Marcus gave the doctor one last passing glance.

"Don't count on it," he couldn't resist mouthing with a smirk. And then he was out of the room, his bare toes scraping against the cold marble of the floor as the guards marched him mercilessly on. Through the corridors he was dragged once more, but this time they only lead down, down, down. Pristine marble gave way to rough cobble and granite, the crystal chandeliers replaced with braziers casting harsh, flickering light upon the unforgiving stone. He was being lead into the dungeons.

_They give me use of their best doctor, then just throw me in a bloody cell the moment I'm awake._

Marcus eyed the rows of barred windows. The sounds of prison drifted down the long hall; chains sliding, voices whispering, begging, growling, yelling. Dirty hands grasped at the bars restricting their escape; eyes glinted in the gloom, trying to catch a glimpse of this newcomer to their dark little world. Despite himself, the assassin shuddered. This was the stuff of his nightmares. The worst possible scenario; to be caught and thrown in a cold cell on death row, helplessly awaiting the gallows.

_He ordered the doctor to heal me_, Marcus reminded himself. _His Lordiness _needs _me alive. He needs me…_

If the guards noticed their prisoner's trepidation, they gave no sign. They dragged him onwards, past hallway after dank hallway. Moving through a guard station, one of the men retrieved a ring of keys hanging from a peg on the wall. Before Marcus could catch a good look at where he put it, however, he was being dragged forward once more, now down flight after flight of rough stone steps.

They were in the bowels of the earth now. Condensation mixed with groundwater trickled down the walls, falling to the floor in a constant _drip-drip _upon the cold stones. The cells were more spread apart here, the barred doors shining black, glistening with moisture in the bleak light of the wall sconces. The guard slid one of the keys into a lock, turning it with a click. The cell door creaked open, the sound echoing sinisterly through the gloom. With a hard shove, Marcus was thrown in, the door locking behind him with finality. Footsteps moved into the distance, rebounding from the walls, fading to nothing.

The cell was every bit as he had expected. The air was cold and damp, smelling mildly of mildew and urine. A hard, musty mattress sat in one corner, the iron bedframe beneath bolted securely to the floor. It didn't take much imagination to know what the metal pail situated beside it was for.

For lack of else to do, the assassin began examining the door. The cold metal bars were immobile. The chains of the lock were sturdy, the iron aged but displaying no sign of weakness or rust. The stone of the doorway was also solid and unforgiving, offering not the slightest possibility of yielding under his efforts. In resignation, the assassin slumped against the wall.

Where above there had been tumult, here there was naught but deathly silence. In spite, Marcus rattled his cell door, if only to hear something else besides the dripping of the water that was his only company.

_Drip. Drip-drip. Drip._

He bowed his head._ What kind of hellhole have they thrown me in?_

Whatever the King had in store for him, Marcus prayed that it would be soon. He was already hearing voices in the darkness. The sound of the dripping walls was boring into his mind. He would go insane locked down here.

Something slid in the gloom. The assassin's keen ears registered the faint pad of skin on concrete, the light _clink_ of moving chains.

And then the voice came.

"So, what did they lock _you _up for?"

He wasn't alone down here after all.

"And who the hell are you?" Marcus called out warily after a pause.

The voice chuckled mirthlessly, husky with disuse.

"A prisoner, like you. Oh yes, I've been a prisoner here for far, _far _too long." A face appeared, pale and unshaven, green eyes gleaming with a half-crazed light, peering out from the bars of the window upon the opposite wall. The man might have been handsome once, but untold ages in captivity had taken their toll. Yet that smile, those pearl-white teeth set Marcus on edge for reasons he could not explain. There was desperation there, yes, but also a tiredness beyond the trials of time. Perhaps even a spark of maniacal cheer.

"I am Hans of the Southern Isles. I was a prince once."


	27. Wield Thy Blade

_**Disclaimer: Frozen belongs to someone else.**_

* * *

**Chapter 27: Wield Thy Blade**

The wooden practice sword felt heavy and awkward in Thomas' hands. The Captain of the Guard stood several paces opposite him, as if a statue in his grey uniform, one foot before the other in a stiff fencing stance. The midday sun shone down upon the inner courtyard, the leaves and ripening fruit around them melding into a kaleidoscope of autumn colour.

When his mother had told him, however haltingly, that he was going to be trained in combat, Thomas had been giddy with anticipatory glee. Finally, he would be able to use his powers for something other than making sculptures! As it was at the time, he didn't think about—and frankly didn't _care_—who his trainer would be, or what the _nature_ of his training would be like. Thus, when the first training session actually began, he was greatly surprised.

"Your Highness' first lesson in swordplay will be on stance," his instructor stated crisply. "The difference between victory and defeat in many a duel has depended on the _integrity_ of the duelers' stances. As you are right handed, put your right foot forward. Now turn your left foot outward… good! Bend that knee slightly; it will give you the ability to strike swiftly and feint with agility!"

The Captain gave a few mock-jabs with his own practice sword, bouncing lightly on his toes. Thomas took the moment to shoot a questioning glance at his father, who merely smiled in encouragement. Sir Gingivere nodded solemnly from his position beside the King.

"Whilst in your rest stance," the Captain continued, "hold your sword straight, and direct the point forward, like so. Such a position allows you to quickly assume an offensive or defensive posture, depending on the situation."

The young prince tried his best to copy the way his instructor held the sword. Suddenly, the Captain darted forward, wooden blade scything down toward Thomas' head. The young prince instinctively backed into a crouch, hastily bringing his own sword up to block—only to have his breath taken out of him by his instructor's blunt blade slamming into his stomach. Coughing, he stumbled back, blinking in shock. He heard his father chuckle softly, as well as the not-so-human laughter of another.

"Never take your opponent's moves at face value!" the Captain stated sternly. "Any apparent attack could just as easily be a ruse to goad you into a more vulnerable position. For example, raising your arm…" His instructor raised his blade as if to block a downward strike. "...leaves your midriff open to attack." The Captain patted his abdomen. Thomas rubbed at his own stomach sorely.

"Sir…" he began slowly. "I was under the impression that this training would be for my _powers_."

His instructor tilted his head. "Oh? And who gave you that idea?"

Thomas cleared his throat. "Ahem, well, when Mother told me I was to begin combat training, I assumed…" His voice trailed off. The Captain waited patiently, gesturing for him to continue. "...I assumed it wouldn't be just _this_, training as if I didn't have any magic at all."

"It is _precisely _that," his instructor answered. "I was informed of the attempt on your life in Corona, Highness. In such a situation, it is _fundamental _you know how to handle yourself in combat. Having your gift won't be enough! Not if you're not confident in using it as a _weapon_. You must be sure of your abilities. You must _know _that you can win." Thomas saw his instructor glance briefly at his father at the statement. "Thus, you must learn to wield the simple blade before you can begin to wield your magic in the same way. Let's see that combat stance again!"

Naturally, that first session was as painful as it was frustrating. Thomas' instructor had no qualms about viciously jabbing the crown prince over, over, and over again, shouting an endless stream of advice and criticisms all the while. It was a bruised and exhausted boy that left the courtyard that afternoon, shoulders sagging with the anticipation of the countless lessons to come. For the umpteenth time, Thomas thanked his body's seeming inability to overheat. At least he didn't have to worry about his newly-laundered suit getting soaked with sweat. Gerda had enough problems to deal with.

As the young prince limped down the hall, several large snowballs, one with twigs attached, came rolling from a side corridor.

"Oh, hi Tom!" Olaf's head greeted as his torso deftly reconnected itself to his feet. "Nice seeing you here! Um, have you seen my nose, by any chance? I've been looking everywhere!" Indeed, the little snowman's face was uncharacteristically flat.

Thomas, however, was too fatigued for Olaf's antics. "Can't say I have," he replied wearily. "Are you sure Sven didn't just eat it again?"

"Pfft, he wouldn't!" the little snowman exclaimed, waving off the idea. As if only then noticing the young prince's stooped posture, Olaf frowned in concern. "Hey, you look _beat_."

The snowman blinked at the icicle that had suddenly embedded itself in the centre of his face.

"No puns," growled Thomas' retreating form from halfway down the hall.

"Okay, then," Olaf called. "Thanks for the nose!"

But the prince was already gone.

* * *

"The blade is only as mighty as its swing," stated the Captain of the Guard, unsheathing his curved sabre from his side. Several days had passed, each lesson growing more difficult and refined than the next, and yet Thomas had yet to even touch a real sword. The setup today, however, raised the young prince's hopes of finally being allowed to wield a blade.

The courtyard was strewn with a quaint assortment of pedestals, fruits of many varieties sitting atop each. The Captain walked up to one such pedestal, and with a swift motion cut the apple upon it in two, the top piece of the crimson fruit flying to land on the bricks beneath Thomas' feet. His instructor stepped to the next pedestal, gutting the melon on top with a lightning slash, the guts within falling to the floor in a series of wet splats. The Captain smoothly returned to rest stance, sabre glistening with juice.

"Your Highness' lesson today will be on swinging efficiently and effectively," the man stated in that same solemn tone.

He couldn't help it; the young prince burst out laughing. His instructor's expression immediately became stern.

"Something funny?"

"No, just… Whatever did those poor fruits do to deserve _that?_" Thomas exclaimed in mock-horror, unable to wipe the mirth from his face.

The Captain bent his gaze, observing the cloudy liquid dripping down his blade. Slowly, his hard expression softened with mirth of his own. With a light flick of his sabre tip, the Captain tossed the half apple remaining on the pedestal, snatching it out of the air with his other hand and biting in. The sound resonated across the courtyard.

"Now," said the instructor, gesturing at the eviscerated melon with his apple slice, "your turn."

Thomas shot him a bemused look. "Sir, I have no sword," he said.

"That is your decision," replied the Captain, taking another bite of his apple.

The young prince frowned at the cryptic words. He tried again. "No, sir, I mean I don't _own _a sword. Father hasn't given me one yet. All I have is this." He waved the wooden practice sword in the air.

His instructor merely stared back at him. "Is that so? Well, that is _your _decision."

And the answer finally dawned on Thomas.

The only reason he didn't have a sword in hand was because he hadn't decided to give himself one.

He brought his arms together before him, brow furrowing in concentration. Points of magical light came to life between his fingers, swirling and dancing among them. With a gust of frozen air, a gleaming short sword crackled into being in Thomas' hands, the translucent ice steaming in the warm atmosphere of the courtyard.

His instructor's eyes widened slightly at the spectacle. The man nodded with approval. "In a life-or-death situation, you must make your own rules. That is what your gift allows you to do, Highness. Never allow yourself to have the disadvantage." The Captain set his half apple back on its pedestal, gesturing for Thomas to hand him the sword. The young prince complied.

"Hmm," his instructor murmured, sheathing his own sabre and running a light finger over the edge of Thomas' blade. "A good length for your size, and it's got a keen sharpness to it," the Captain mused aloud. He turned to the pedestal to his left, cleanly cleaving through the squash atop it. "Seems sturdy enough," the instructor stated, pulling the sword from the fruit's flesh. "It should do!"

Thomas took back the icy hilt, grasping the sword tightly in one hand. He crouched down in the combat stance the Captain had taught him, facing the closest pedestal. Concentrating, he slashed downward at the apple on top of it with all his might. To his dismay, his iridescent blade merely chipped a large chunk off the fruit, spraying sugary liquid into the air.

"Do not despair!" his instructor called. "No one ever succeeds in their first attempt, I guarantee. As I said, the blade is only as mighty as its _swing_." The Captain unsheathed his sabre once more. "And the swing is only as good as the accuracy of your cutting edge." He brought the curved blade downward in a slow arc, stepping forward into the swing. "The edge of your blade should be directly perpendicular to the surface of your target. In the case of something as round as a fruit, you must change your angle accordingly." The instructor gestured to another pedestal with his sabre. "Give it another go."

The young prince took a breath, narrowing his eyes at the melon. This time, the icy blade cleaved cleanly through the fruit, before promptly shattering upon the hard wooden surface of the stand. Thomas held the stub that remained of his sword, blinking numbly in shock. Now it was his instructor's turn to chuckle.

"I think it's safe to say you truncated that melon thoroughly. Perhaps a little too thoroughly! Remember, Your Highness, of magical origin though it may be, your ice is evidently still _ice_. You cannot expect it to perform like steel!" To accentuate his point, the Captain ground a shard of Thomas' blade under his foot.

Frowning, the young prince willed his sword to mend. A new blade swiftly materialized in a sizzle of frigid wind.

"Then again, I don't suppose that will be quite a problem for you," his instructor amended, tilting his head. "Nonetheless, you must be careful. Trying to parry a powerful blow could end badly, should your blade fail again." The Captain shook his head to himself. "Anyhow, practise makes perfect. There are squash to be slain!"

Thomas laughed aloud.

* * *

"So I challenged him, as you dared me to."

Thomas raised his gaze from the ice figurine he was working on, leaning back from his table and grinning up at Sir Gingivere.

"Well, don't keep me guessing! Who won?"

The knight's helmet drooped slightly. "It is my utter dismay to announce my defeat."

The young prince threw his arms in the air. "Aw, come on! How could you? How could your _pride _let you? I thought I created you better than this!" he exclaimed good-naturedly.

Sir Gingivere raised one finger in a clicking of armour plates. "That man was good, Master Thomas. Loath as I am to admit to it, he was very skilled indeed. A better swordsman I've yet to meet in my existence! You have no idea how lucky you are to have him as mentor."

Thomas wasn't quite done niggling the knight yet. "Why, the great knight Sir Gingivere, defeated by our very own Captain of the Guard? Nations beware!"

Sir Gingivere folded his great arms over his breastplate. "That is quite enough from you! Does not the Crown Prince of Arendelle have other matters to attend to?"

"No, but yes." The excitement seemed to drain from the prince's voice at the short statement. Thomas tapped the polished surface of his table, sending tendrils of light twining up his figurine. Delicate contours of frost slowly melted into existence upon the smooth surface of the ice, drawing out armour plates and a helmet.

"Say, that looks an awful lot like me!" Sir Gingivere commented.

"It's another assignment from Mother," Thomas replied quietly, gently moving the figurine off to the side, where several other figurines already stood. "I'm supposed to make a chess set, with each individual piece as detailed as I can get it. She said it's meant to strengthen my 'concentration and precision'." With a small motion from the prince's hand, another rough humanoid shape rose out of the tabletop. Thomas sighed, clenching his fist and shattering the ice into a thousand shards. He slumped back into his chair, a tired palm to his forehead.

"What is wrong, Master Thomas?" Deep concern now coloured the knight's tone.

Thomas did not raise his eyes. "I just don't understand it," he muttered, almost to himself. "No matter what I do, how I act, I just can't seem to… I don't know, _get _to her anymore."

Sir Gingivere tilted his head. "What do you mean?"

The young prince sighed again. "It just… Mother never seems genuinely _happy _for me anymore. When I complete a sculpture or practise my powers in front of her, she only gives this small, weak smile. Never any words of encouragement. Only that forced smile, and flat advice. And whenever I tell her about my practices with Captain Roderick, she sort of freezes up and gets this _look _in her eyes. I…" Thomas' voice grew to a whisper. "I don't even know what I ever did to wrong her..."

Beyond the double doors to the crown prince's chamber, the Queen stood alone in the cold hallway, tremors running through her slight frame. Elsa turned slowly down the corridor, head bowed, footsteps hesitant and unsure. A single tear welled from her cerulean eyes, rolling slowly down her cheek. It froze before it could even hit the floor.

* * *

"Back! Parry! That's it, keep at it!"

Thomas ducked under another swing from his mentor, chest heaving with exertion. He straightened himself, pouncing forward in an attempt to land a hit, but the Captain merely stepped aside with the speed of lightning, making the young prince trip from his own momentum. His mentor swooped low with a swift jab, landing Thomas flat on his back.

The Captain clucked, shaking his head in disapproval. "Too aggressive! You overextended and left yourself poorly defended. Should you be attacked again, it will not be a game. You are forever the defender, Highness. Fight conservatively! Let your opponent make the mistakes." The man extended a hand to the fallen prince. Thomas took it slowly, pulling himself back to standing with difficulty.

"Had enough for one class?" His instructor's eyes gleamed with teasing light.

"Enough? Why, I'm still fit as a fiddle!" Thomas replied with a grin, trying to steady his staccato breathing. The Captain nodded, the corner of his mouth tilting up in a knowing smile. The man sank back into his combat stance. The young prince did the same.

"En guard!" he cried, darting forward to cleave at his mentor's flank.

"I've hardly taught you actual sport fencing," the Captain commented, the wooden blade of his training sword already blocking his pupil's jab. "After all, it's only marginally useful in real combat."

The prince was too busy dodging his mentor's fierce counterattack to reply. He quickly retreated from another blow, suddenly reversing direction and springing forth in a wild lunge, attempting to catch the Captain off guard. He saw a glimmer of surprise in his mentor's eyes as his arm jarred with the impact of his sword upon the flat of the Captain's blade. Thomas swiftly directed his instructor's hasty parry downward, turning his chest in preparation for the finishing swing.

But the Captain was faster than he could have imagined. Flinging his body back in a devastating slide, the man used his feet like a wedge against Thomas' legs. The Captain became the fulcrum; the prince, the lever. There was nothing Thomas could do to stop himself from somersaulting over his mentor's shoulder and slamming into the hard brick of the courtyard. The impact sent a shock of numb pain up his spine, knocking the air from his lungs. The Captain walked over calmly, raising his wooden sword for the final blow.

Any other class, Thomas would have let him. The young prince was worn out, sore in every joint and probably well bruised. Admitting defeat once more to his instructor would have been a small price to pay for respite from this toil.

But not today.

With a strength he didn't know he had, the young prince rolled into a crouch, diving out of the path of the Captain's blade. Legs nearly buckling with the strain, Thomas forced himself upright, only to stare down the tip of his mentor's sword. He tried to back away, but his limbs were like lead pipes, landing him flat upon the floor once again. The tip of the practice sword moved relentlessly closer, mere centimetres from the young prince's nose. The Captain's moustache was curled in a goading smile.

Suddenly, Thomas was back in the sweltering Coronan night, a far more sinister figure looming over him, deadly blade kissing his skin. He skittered backward on all fours, the same animal panic building in his chest. But there was something else this time. Something fiery and delicious, sending power surging through his limbs, casting everything into terrible clarity.

He would not be defeated.

There was a booming clap, the deafening blast resounding from the castle walls, arctic gales howling across the once-tranquil courtyard. Amid the lashing wind, Thomas heard a bellow of shock, tinged with unmistakable fear. Then there was nothing but the ice beneath him, exploding outwards from his outstretched hand in jagged fractals of destruction. Snowflakes and fragments of frost swirled in a vortex around him, obscuring his vision, catching in his hair and blowing it into wild shapes. There came an even louder crack from under the prince's feet. His ears popped as the ice shifted under his feet.

A stern, familiar voice carried to Thomas' ears in the chaos, straining to be heard above the roaring maelstrom. "_Your… Highness… THOMAS! STOP!_"

The raw authority in the Captain's words snapped the young prince from his haze. Thomas blinked, looking at the storm around him in confusion. One by one, the snowflakes in the air froze in their motion, revealing the courtyard beyond.

Or, what was left of it.

He stood atop a dizzyingly tall pillar of jagged ice. Below, frozen waves thrust outward from him like ripples from a stone, each of them topped with wicked stalagmites. The bricks of the courtyard floor had been torn apart, filling the gaps between the icy palisades with a sea of red rubble. At the edge of it all stood the Captain of the Guard, sword arm raised in futile defense, staring up at his pupil in awe.

Abruptly, a spell of crippling fatigue overcame Thomas, staggering him under its weight. The young prince swayed on unsteady limbs, teetering as his legs went limp beneath him. At that moment, the hard ice of the pillar seemed as soft as any bed. The frantic shouting of his mentor registered in his ears, but he couldn't, hadn't the energy to make sense of the words.

Powerless to stop them, Thomas' eyelids drifted shut as the sweet darkness enveloped him.

* * *

"This is too much. It is as we feared."

"Your Majesty, you weren't there. Yes, it was terrifying, but it was _magnificent_. It was like witnessing the Queen's palace up on the North Mountain for the first time, only more… _raw._ He was a god upon that tower, Henrik. If that is what he has become capable of, isn't it a sure sign the training is _working?_"

"Such behavior is what we wanted to _prevent!_" The King took a deep breath, voice growing low and insistent. "Have you forgotten the Eternal Winter? The terror of the people, Elsa's own horror? His powers could _destroy _him!"

"Thomas is not the Queen. Where Her Majesty had fear and uncertainty, he has assurance, joy, _control_. He can conquer his magic, become its master, have it bend to his will! He has it in him."

For a moment, there was quiet. Then, Henrik's voice spoke again.

"Do not think you know Elsa. And do not think for a _moment_ you know this power she shares with my son. There is a reason we dub it magic, Roderick. Those who fear us, who fear the Snow Queen… well, their fear is well-placed. This power, it could be our undoing."

A door clicked shut.

* * *

The first sensation that registered to Thomas was the comforting weight of soft, familiar sheets upon his skin. The next was the cool, slender fingers grasping his own. The young prince opened his eyes slowly, wincing at the powerful ache flaring in every muscle as he turned his body. His mother sat at his bedside, loose hair tumbling in platinum waves from her forehead. Her blue gaze locked with his, and she smiled delicately. But Thomas could only see the lines of red streaking his mother's eyes. She had been crying.

"Glad you're awake," she whispered.

"Mother?" the young prince asked groggily, swallowing to clear the thickness of sleep from his throat. "What… what happened?"

"Well… suffice to say, we'll be needing to re-pave the courtyard."

Thomas couldn't help but wince at the memory.

"Mother, I'm… I'm sorry. This… this is exactly what you were afraid of."

"Oh, on the contrary. You showed enough concentration, enough _control _over your magic to stop yourself before you could truly hurt someone. It's reassuring." Elsa's thumb gently kneaded the top of her son's hand.

Thomas closed his eyes. "Mother… I see now, why you were so reluctant to let me train. You were afraid of this."

His mother said nothing, but her grip upon the prince's hand tightened noticeably.

"I looked at your chess pieces," she said after a moment of silence. "They're beautiful."

Thomas forced a laugh. "Just small versions of Sir Gingivere. I haven't even gotten to the queens yet."

"You do that. After all, they're the strongest pieces on the board."

At that moment, there came a rapid knocking on the other side of the doors.

"Come in," Elsa said softly.

The doors swung open to admit Olaf's disembodied head, rolling into the room in a flurry of snowflakes. The snowman's eyes stared up at Elsa and Thomas as his head ground to a stop.

"Don't ask," he whispered loudly. A smile crept across the young prince's face on its own accord.

"He's awake!" Olaf's head shouted out to the open doorway. Immediately, the entirety of Anna's side of the family tumbled into Thomas' bedroom, the redhead herself at their head. Olaf's hindquarters bobbed in the rear of the group.

"Tom!" his aunt exclaimed, wrapping him in a tight embrace. "Thank goodness you're alright!"

"Just tired," Thomas mumbled, self-conscious despite everything. "It's nothing."

Christopher chuckled. "Nothing! Tell that to Captain Roderick. Heck, tell that to the _courtyard!_"

Thomas felt his mother wince beside him. He shot his cousin a steely look.

"I didn't _mean _to cause property damage," he said evenly. But Christopher was waggling his eyebrows in such a ridiculous manner that the young prince could not remain upset at him. The young prince finally barked out a laugh. "Fine, maybe I meant it a little."

"But the Captain's such a nice man!" Annabeth exclaimed. The dreamy look in her eyes only had Thomas laughing harder.

"If you think he is _nice_, you're dead mistaken, dear sister. That man is pure evil." He glanced at his mother out the corner of his eye. The Queen's icy eyes were unreadable. "But maybe he didn't _quite_ deserve a storm thrown at him," the young prince added in a quieter tone.

"That _was _pretty intense," said Olaf, head now on its proper perch atop his torso. "It was like a little piece of Elsa's old storm on the fjord! Only more… spikey."

Thomas blinked. "You were watching?"

"Of course!" the snowman replied, as if the answer were obvious. "I watch all your classes. You really are getting good!"

"Olaf gets bored," Christopher explained with a shrug. "Not much for a snowman to do these days, apparently."

The young prince could think of no response to that. Alas, the flimsy atmosphere of cheer that had flared during the cousins' conversation quickly wilted in the cold silence.

"Food?" Thomas blurted, in an effort to keep the old wraiths of fear and uncertainty from making their return.

"What about it?" It was his mother's voice this time. The hint of mirth in the words lifted a weight from the young prince's shoulders.

"I'm _famished_." Thomas searched the six walls of his room for his grandfather clock. "What time is it?"

"It's about nine of the clock, past dawn," Elsa replied, obviously relieved to be discussing such a benign topic.

Thomas' eyes widened. "I've been out for that long?"

"You've been asleep since last afternoon. It's no wonder you're hungry!" His mother gave him a smile. A warm smile. A comforting smile. "I'll go to the kitchens and see what's left from breakfast." And with that, the Queen was gone.

Christopher patted at his chest in mock-horror. "How'd she get through us so fast?"

Anna chuckled. "She has a way with crowds." Her daughter laughed as well.

Thomas sank back into his pillow, closing his eyes, immersing himself in the warm family atmosphere. He allowed himself a smile of contentment.

He would enjoy this for as long as he could, in the desperate way one does when they knew that happiness was coming to an end.

For ahead lay uncertainty. A storm was brewing.

* * *

_**And there you have it! A lot of dialogue experimentation on my part here; I wanted to try developing character bonds and story continuity through character interaction rather than narrative, for once. That being said, this chapter contains probably the largest chunks of "fluffy" interaction since Sir Gingivere's creation. How did I do? REVIEWS PLEASE!**_


	28. Queen's Gambit

_**Disclaimer: Disney owns more stuff than me.**_

* * *

**Chapter 28: Queen's Gambit**

Prince Joseph was on edge. The custody of Marcus Everett was changing everything. The assassin himself proved little threat; he had been secured in the deepest dungeon of the castle—next to Hans the Disgraced himself, according to the prison guards. But having the man at the King's disposal was seeming more and more like throwing a whole other piece upon the board in the Southern Isles game against Weselton. Only, Everett was hardly predictable. The man was a wild card, plain and simple—the kind of potential contingency-breaker the prince simply dreaded.

But what made the whole situation worse by thousandfold was the preposition of action. Marcus Everett was proof; living, attesting proof of the atrocity attempted in Corona against the Crown Prince of Arendelle a mere month before. The assassin's knowledge alone was enough to bring Weselton to its wretched knees. The man was an invaluable bargaining chip. But King Mathias wanted more. The sovereign's motives could not have been more clear—Weselton was to be razed to the ground, decimated once and for all without any hope of recovery. And Everett was to be the fulcrum to set it all in motion.

Alas, there was only one problem. Queen Elsa of Arendelle was to be the lever.

"Brother, this is pure folly."

Mathias raised an eyebrow at the blunt statement.

"If you weren't such a dear sibling and colleague, Joseph, I would be well persuaded to have you flogged for such an accusation."

The prince refrained from rolling his eyes. "The Snow Queen is the most dangerous and powerful individual in all of known Europe," he said, voice hard. "You are suggesting to bring before her the man who held a blade to her son's throat, and then… what? To plead her mercy before she freezes us to death and leaves our ships in pieces at the bottom of her fjord?"

"That is _exactly_ what I shall do. Only, we will direct her murderous mother's rage against the _true_ perpetrator of her son's demise."

"And how are we to convince her? With the mutual trust we share? Even coming from Everett's mouth, she would only see proof against Weselton as just another of our lies!"

The King of the Southern Isles scowled. "Your time in my court is quickly expiring, little brother. Have you a better idea? Speak!"

"We bring Everett to Weselton. Kick that ancient Duke off his chair, after forcing him to sign a binding contract to us that puts his nation under our dominion. All this under the mere _threat _of enacting your preposition. Weselton can rival us no more after that! What remains of their riches and networks will be ours. Where is the sense in wasting such opportunity?"

His brother was silent for a long moment. When the man finally spoke again, however, it was with absolute resolution.

"The actions of the Duke of Weselton two decades ago are the lasting reasons for our ill repute, Joseph. They, coupled with baby brother Hans' weakness and _stupidity_, are the _only_ reasons why Arendelle is not under my control today!" A fire flared in Mathias' eyes. "Now that tiny kingdom on the fjord is the damn centre of all northern trade! And where are we?"

Tendons pulled taught in the King's neck, the skin of his face drawn tight in a grimace of rage. Abruptly, Joseph was reminded of a scene years ago. Joseph had been afraid then, afraid of speaking out against Mathias and his accomplices, lest he suffer same fate as poor Hans. But he had seen. Seen the sadistic joy gleaming in his eldest brother's eye as he walked past his youngest sibling over and over again, as if he didn't even exist. As if he hadn't been worth enough to even acknowledge. And when fresh tears had finally begun streaming down Hans' cheeks, Joseph would have sworn he saw Mathias smile.

But then, something unthinkable had happened. After a few more days, Hans stopped crying. After a week, he had stopped seeking his brothers out. After a month, it had all become horribly clear. Little baby brother wasn't playing the game anymore.

The rage that exploded from Mathias then had taken everyone by surprise. Hans' face was already black and splotched with bruises before the butler had even the chance to intervene. Even after Desmond and Peter had hung their heads with the guilt of capture, Mathias did not stop. Joseph still remembered the murderous look upon his eldest brother's face as he held Hans by the collar, fist striking down again and again, the sickening thuds of impact seeming louder than any thunder. It had taken the butt of the butler's sword to pry Mathias from the bloody mess that remained of his brother.

Joseph hadn't understood it then, but it was all too obvious to him now. Mathias craved control. _Needed _it like he needed air. And by not begging and whining as he had expected, Hans had taken that control from him. To Mathias, there had been no greater grief.

And now it was happening again. Or rather, it _had_ happened, two decades before. Dominion over Arendelle was lost to the Southern Isles forever. Hans had been _so close_. Yet he had failed. And if the disgraced former prince was to be believed, the Duke of Weselton had been the one to undermine his plan by prematurely sending his assassins after the Queen.

Mathias never forgave.

"Hans has been dealt with," growled the King, voice low and deadly. "Weselton _will_ be punished for taking Arendelle from me. If I can rain hell upon them, then by God, it is a hell that awaits them!" The man's knuckles were white upon the seat of his throne.

But Joseph still had one last card up his sleeve. "What you plan is immoral. To manipulate magic, to use it for your own twisted revenge..." He stared hard into his brother's eyes. "What would Iona think?"

From the slight tremor in Mathias' hand, the prince knew he had gone too far.

"Speak of my daughter again," the King growled, leaning forward menacingly, "and I will not make any more considerations for you."

Joseph did not need the appearance of the two stern-faced guards to know his time in the sovereign's court was at an end.

* * *

Marcus no longer knew night from day.

He didn't know how long he had been trapped between the damp walls of this hellish prison, but it was long enough. Long enough to see the ghastly pale pallor of his skin in the lamplight of the guards as they did their rounds, their hard footsteps melding with the endless dripping of the water off in the gloom. Long enough for the thought of warm cedar and biscuits to be the very definition of Heaven.

The doctor had been true to his word; the wound was itching like mad. Many a time had the assassin's resolve faltered as he tore the worn cloth from the stump, his grimy fingers doing nothing to alleviate the irritation that seemed to take over his very mind. The area around the solidified silver had turned pink—not the angry pink of infection, thankfully, but the fresh, gleaming pink of new flesh. He was healing. That, at least, was some consolation.

But it was growing colder. And in those stark moments as he lay shivering in the corner, breath fogging the frigid air as his body tried desperately to create the warmth it needed to survive, the old pain would flare in his left hand, and the ghost of the ice sorcerer would loom over him once more. In the darkness of the dungeon, he had grown to hate the boy, to hate his former target with a ferocity he hadn't ever imagined. He understood the Duke's motive now. No one deserved power of that magnitude. If only his resolve had been stronger; if only his blade had been but a stroke quicker…

Instead, he'd lost his hand. His freedom, gone with the sun. And now the frost prince stalked him through his very dreams.

His black reverie was broken by a terribly familiar voice.

"Aw, is the poor prisoner cold? It gets worse, I promise you. If you're lucky enough to stay, it gets a _whole_ lotworse…"

Marcus gritted his teeth, doing his best to tune out Hans' caustic ramblings. The assassin had had quite enough to do with the decades-incarcerated former prince. Isolation certainly had not been kind to the man, body or spirit—that much had quickly become evident. The words that came forth from those pearly teeth were dark and sardonic, when they were coherent at all. And there was a glimmer in those emerald eyes; a sharp light teetering on the edge of sanity, yet hinting at the intelligence that still persisted just beyond.

Hans was a right pain in the arse.

But the man was company. And awful as it was, Marcus suspected the former prince's pestilence was the only thing staving off his own insanity. For when the man finally fell asleep, the assassin would hear voices emanating from the unknowable depths, niggling at the edge of his perception, clawing for dominance over his every thought.

In Corona, he'd heard stories in the pubs. Stories of haggard men released from captivity after years of isolation and torture, their term of punishment at an end at long last. Only, one could hardly have called them men anymore. And as much as Marcus clenched his teeth and told himself otherwise, he knew now that those tales had not been exaggerated. The darkness, the confinement; he could feelthem like a physical presence, like wraiths glowering at him through the cell windows. He could feel how far he was from the warmth of the sun, from the cool, soothing light of the stars. He could feel his mind melting into the abyss, like the fingers of one hanging desperately from a precipice…

The metallic jangling of keys on the ring resonated down the dark hall. Abruptly, the assassin was squinting in the blinding light of a lantern, the shadows of three guards stretching over his prone form upon the stone floor of the cell. And then the door creaked open.

"Marcus Everett. You are requested in His Majesty's court."

"You bastards waited long fucking enough."

* * *

Winter was coming. The Duke of Weselton woke one grey morning to find his study window crawling with frozen vines, his breath misting in the chilly air. Instantly, the old noble's mood darkened. Ever since Arendelle, he had hated the first frost. It was too much of a premonition, a stark reminder of how the ice was once more about to assert its dominance over the waning sun. Winter, cold and implacable, was announcing its return. And for all the power of mortal men, not one could do anything to stop it.

_No, but there is one_, the cursed voice in his mind reminded _, in fact._

The Duke gritted his teeth. In truth, it wasn't winter he hated. No, it was the sense of helplessness it brought. The reminder that, for all his worldly actions, there would forever be one who wielded power he could only imagine.

_Which is why I cannot rest. Which is why I must end this once and for all._

The sovereign gazed sullenly over the frozen fields beyond his window, the frost upon the trees gleaming in the morning sun. Loath as he was to admit it, there _was_ an ethereal beauty to it all, like a scene out of some fairy tale…

_If only in reality were we assured such happy endings, _the Duke thought bitterly.

There came a knocking on the chamber door.

"Who is it?" the Duke called, voice still dusty with sleep. "State your name and purpose!"

In response, the door swung open, revealing the sharply dressed younger man standing upon the other side. "Good morning to you as well, Uncle," greeted Klaus, his smile contradicting with the glint in his black eyes. "Glad to see you can still get out of bed."

The Duke turned to the mirror above his sink, meticulously adjusting the toupee upon his bald head. The old noble fished his wire spectacles from the pocket of his coat, perching them upon the bridge of his nose with exaggerated slowness, before finally turning back to the doorway to look at his nephew.

"What can I help you with, Nephew? Forgotten how to button your coat? Or is it girl troubles again?"

The governor tried unsuccessfully to hide his scowl at the jab. "No, Uncle, the matter of which I need to speak with you is of considerably greater importance." The man crossed the threshold into the Duke's study with a degree of gingerness, stepping through the doorway in long, measured strides.

"The Council has been wondering as to the course of action you intend to take about this… conspiracy the Southern Isles have made against you."

Despite himself, the Duke was taken completely off guard. "Ex… Excuse me?" he sputtered. "Of what _conspiracy _do you speak?"

His nephew stared back at him as if he were quite dim indeed. "Has it not occurred to you the suspicion that other nations will harbour against Weselton in the light of the event in Corona? You tried to assassinate the Queen of Arendelle once, Uncle. What's to say you didn't try a second time?"

The Duke's brow knitted tightly above his squinted eyes. "You've made your point once already!"

His nephew ploughed on. "Has it not also occurred to you that the Southern Isles share in this suspicion due to their Prince Hans' actions the same twenty years ago?"

"Been reading up, haven't you?"

The governor stamped his foot with a loud clack on the wooden flooring. "Damn it, Uncle! How can you not foresee it?! The Southern Isles will do everything in their power to make sure you, no, _WE _are the ones to take the blame for the assassination attempt! And you were damn right when you said that an _icy hell_ awaits whomever that blame lands upon. They know that too."

The Duke's mouth hung half-open to retort, but his gaze was no longer focused upon his nephew. For the stark truth of the governor's words had finally dawned on him.

_Could it be true?_

The instant the question flared in his mind, the answer ground it into oblivion. Of course it was true. The Southern Isles were bastards, the lot of them, but he'd be damned if they weren't clever as well. And now his own blindness had lost his nation precious time in a race he hadn't even been aware they were competing in.

Weselton would be lost if he did not act.

"Nephew..." The Duke took a long, shuddering breath. "Confound it, but you are right."

The governor's face had already split in a triumphant grin.

"There will be time to gloat over that statement later!" the sovereign exclaimed angrily. "With that statement comes much urgency and work to be done." Out of lifelong habit, the Duke began to pace, head bowed in hard thought.

"Winter is almost upon us. The seas will be too treacherous to traverse for months… but the same goes for all Northern kingdoms. The Southern Isles… they won't be able to send any vessels to Arendelle until next spring!" The Duke stayed his feet, muttering under his breath as if to himself. "Nature has bought us valuable time—time I cannot waste. I must act." The old noble turned back to his nephew, the light of urgency gleaming in his spectacles. "Alert the Council promptly, Nephew, and leave me! There is much I need to consider."

* * *

For once, Henrik had no idea how to proceed. Despite Captain Roderick's protests, Thomas' lessons had been postponed indefinitely. After all, the courtyard floor was still being repaved after the incident. The team of repairmen had been quite shocked indeed when first confronted with the scene of destruction, their consternated gazes flitting instantly to the Queen. If only they had known the true source of such devastating power…

It wasn't as if the King had been unaware of his son's growing potential. The magnitude of Thomas' magic had evidently been intensifying for years now. Yet when he had actually witnessed his son's limp form atop that tower, the courtyard lying in ruins below him, it was as if a spear of the ice had embedded itself into his very heart. _That_ was his son. The boy who could destroy navies, singlehandedly lay siege to entire kingdoms.

No matter how much he reassured himself, the ancient troll's words all those years ago continued to propagate the seeds of worry and doubt into Henrik's mind. After all, wasn't he cultivating in the boy the skill, the _mindset_ to do whatever necessary to stay alive, no matter the cost? How much would it really take to change that belief to something darker? How long would it be until that mindset morphed into doing whatever necessary to _vanquish_ all who opposed him?

Henrik hated himself. Hated himself for doubting his son. Hated himself for being the catalyst that sent Thomas down this uncertain path in the first place. But had there been any alternative? Indeed, did he really have a choice? There was no denying it—if it came between Thomas' life or the lives of a thousand citizens in a foreign nation, his son would always come first. Always. Elsa might have it in her selfless heart for such a sacrifice, but deep in the King's own, he knew he couldn't ever forfeit Thomas.

So what was there to do?

Henrik screwed his eyes shut, burying his head in his arms upon the polished surface of his desk.

_One often meets his destiny on the road he takes to avoid it…_

The King's hands clenched into fists, trembling with the frustration of despair.

"His birthday is coming in a week, you know," his wife's soft voice whispered in his ear.

Henrik started despite himself. He hadn't even heard her come in.

Elsa's gentle hand caressed his shoulder. "I've never known you to be such a worrywart."

The King squeezed his eyes shut, a sigh sliding between his teeth. "What are we going to do, love?" he asked quietly. "I pity your parents now, Elsa. Pity them as only the empathetic can. How can you love someone _so much_, yet fear them so intensely? Fear _for _them so dearly?" He shook his head helplessly. "What are we going to do? What _can _we do?"

When there came no immediate reply, Henrik looked up to find his wife's icy blue eyes gazing intently into his own, a sad smile playing about her delicate lips.

"We give him the birthday he deserves. We invite all who can to come to celebrate our son beginning of his fifteenth year of life. We hang snowflakes from the walls, glaze the castle over in ice like every other year." Somehow Elsa's hand had found its way over his upon the tabletop, and now she gave it a light, reassuring squeeze. "Nothing has changed, Henrik. Thomas is still the boy he was last week."

"You think I don't know that?" the King replied wearily. He was silent for a long moment.

"Damn that troll," he suddenly exclaimed, vehemence colouring his tone. "_Damn_ him and his infuriating prophecy! When has Thomas shown any sign of hatred? When has he even shown a sign of abnormal _anger? _And yet he had to insist on _hatred _being our boy's undoing…"

"I know you're frustrated, love," Elsa interjected softly. "I'm scared, too. But we can't let this uncertainty cripple us. Not like… before."

Henrik grimaced at the thought. "No, you're right," he returned slowly. "_Never_ like before. If we can decide on anything, it's that locking him away can never be the solution."

His wife nodded. "So what _do_ we do?" By her voice, the King knew she already knew his answer. Nonetheless, he took a long breath before replying.

"We trust him."

* * *

_**Reviews are dear to me.**_


	29. Smoke in the Crowd

_**Disclaimer: I own naught but the story.**_

* * *

**Chapter 29: Smoke in the Crowd**

Morning came with the glistening gold of ice in the sunrise. Thomas awoke early to the light tinkling of chimes in the wind. He opened his eyes slowly, a smile creeping across his features at the sight of the small chandeliers of snowflakes hanging outside each of his tall windows, jingling and fluttering in the breeze. The young prince slipped out of bed barefoot, stepping up to the windowsill, impervious to the late-autumn chill of the marble floor beneath him.

Though the vibrant leaves of the season still littered the hillsides beyond, the parapets and rooftops of the castle were all coated in a gossamer layer of clear ice, its twinkling light reflecting the fine patterns etched within. From the tips of the towers above soared pinnacles of white frost, topped with the enormous snowflakes that had become so familiar to the people of Arendelle after twenty years. In the corner of his window, Thomas could just make out the iridescent blue that had become of the main courtyard floor, the pillars around its perimeter embellished with glistening vines twining up their lengths.

_Right… _The young prince grinned wider._ Mother certainly has been busy._

"Your Highness," came a muffled voice from the door. "Are you awake?"

"Come in, Kai," Thomas called.

The doors to the prince's room swung open simultaneously, revealing the entirety of his family beyond.

"_Happy birthday!_" they sang together, smiles practically blinding Thomas with their intensity. The prince stared frozen for a moment, then just shook his head.

"You _all_ got up before me? Chris, I'm surprised."

"One time thing," his cousin returned with a drawl, dramatically feigning a yawn.

"We wanted to get you for ourselves before the townspeople mobbed you for the rest of the day," his father stated wryly, gesturing out the window.

"I don't sleep," said Olaf simply.

"Aw, aren't you just a _little_ bit happy about our surprise?" Anna asked, amusement colouring her tone. "It's hardly like we do this every year…"

"Thank you," Thomas replied suddenly, almost blurting the words. "Truly. You're… you're always there for me, all of you, from my happiest moments to… to my darkest hours. I don't know who... I would _be_ without my family, without you. So, thank you."

The young prince shifted self-consciously from foot to foot in the stark silence that followed. After what seemed an eternity, he cleared his throat awkwardly. "Ahem. Didn't mean to cut you off, Aunt Anna."

Instead, it was his mother who spoke. "I think he's learning to express himself quite nicely," she nodded, crossing her arms over her chest.

His father chucked. "About time. After all, a king who cannot speak his heart cannot win them!"

And that was all that was said before Thomas was enveloped in his aunt's warm embrace.

"So sweet of you to care," Anna murmured into her nephew's shoulder.

"Can I join?" piped Olaf from the doorway.

Thomas laughed. "Of course you can, little guy!"

Beside the grandfather clock, Sir Gingivere shook his empty head in embarrassment.

* * *

"Put these on."

"Aye, boss? And what would these nice clothes be for?"

"Just put them on, all of you. You aren't payed to ask questions."

"And what _would_ you be paying us for today, boss?"

"Just keep those uniforms a-shining. Someone spent good money to haul them all the way over the sea."

"Over the sea? From where?"

"South. Way south."

"To here? In the winter! They're mad!"

There was a gravelly, mirthless laugh.

"For the right price, men will do anything."

Footsteps receded into the distance.

* * *

Breakfast was even more extravagant than usual. The gleaming plates upon the long table were piled high with the most impressive array of breads, cold meats, and desserts Thomas had ever seen the cooks prepare for the family, even on such a grand occasion. By the way his stomach was growling, however, the prince was hardly complaining.

"Oh, the cooks really outdid themselves this time," Kristoff muttered under his breath, staring with wide eyes at his heaping plate.

"I could hardly stop them!" retorted Gerda from her seat. "You know how they are."

"They wanted to make you somfing special for your only private meal of the day, birfday boy," explained Anna, cheeks already full to bursting. The Queen shook her head, smiling despite herself.

"You'd think after forty years she'd have learned…"

"Miss Anna is living proof of how etiquette is _not _an integral part of royal life," Kai commented to Kristoff. The two men chortled at the old joke.

"Thank the stars for that!" returned the ice harvester.

The conversation quickly died to the soft sounds of chewing and drinking. The food was extraordinarily good; the royal chefs truly were experts in their art, and today was indeed a special event. As he savoured breakfast, Thomas thought of another meal on another birthday months ago, in a faraway kingdom in a faraway land.

"Will people from any other nations be coming?" he quipped suddenly—only remembering to wipe his mouth under his father's stony glare.

"Oh, we sent invitations, of course," answered his mother, her head scarcely seeming to move as she forked a piece of meat between her lips. "But this time of year, it's hard to get here, especially by sea. It's quite the narrow fjord, and it's becoming an ice field out there."

"Some people can travel from over the mountains, though, can't they?" put in Kristoff.

"We might have a few visitors from DunBroch, but aside from them, there is no one," said Henrik. "Barely anyone lives that far up north!"

"That's a shame, then," sighed Thomas. "I was wishing I could show Warner around Arendelle."

"Ah, that opportunity will come sooner or later," assured Kai. "Besides, from what I've heard, the poor lad wouldn't much appreciate you hauling him about in the public spotlight!"

The young prince laughed. "There is that…"

The church bells tolled eight times in the distance. The King and Queen put down their utensils in unison.

"Our cue, ladies and gentlemen," stated Henrik, rising from his seat. The rest of the family quickly followed suit.

"Alright, Thomas," smiled his mother. "It's your time to shine."

* * *

The chamber behind the main balcony was quite familiar to Thomas. It had scarcely changed over the years; the woven rug upon the floor was the same concentric mosaic it had always been, and the two red leather couches by the walls were as pristine as ever. Daylight spilled in from the windows above, casting everything in the soft glow of mid-morning. Already the din of the gathered crowd beyond could be heard, coming muffled through the smooth stone walls.

The young prince paced slowly across the carpet, head bowed in hard thought as he muttered softly under his breath. Unlike in previous years, this time his father had not been forthcoming with a script for Thomas to follow during his annual speech.

"It is time you truly spoke for yourself," the King had said. "After all, leader's flair is in his spontaneity."

It wasn't as if the prince was uneasy around the common people. He wasn't oblivious to the envy and resentment that came toward a royal figure like him, but the citizens of Arendelle had always seemed benevolent and friendly as a whole. Sure, there were the occasional scoundrels and drunkards, but Thomas never felt anything worse than mild distaste toward the men and women of his future kingdom.

_Love your people, and they will love you, isn't that what they say?_

But the fear was still there, brooding and palpable in the back of his mind. The fear of confronting all his kingdom, all at once, without any script to read from.

Stage fright had him in its clutches.

His father's voice snapped his legs from their endless cycle over the rug.

"Son, there is something I think you should have."

Thomas raised his gaze, and gasped. For in his father's hands was a long, narrow object, its golden edges gleaming coldly in the sunlight; a scabbard, the shining hilt of the sword within pointing expectantly back toward him. With wide, disbelieving eyes, the prince slowly took the blade in his palms, holding it at a reverent distance from his chest.

"Father, are… are you sure?" he whispered.

The King nodded solemnly. "I am sure. I have been sure from the moment I turned you over to Captain Roderick. Happy birthday, Thomas. May that blade never have to see true action."

Fingers still trembling with lingering awe, Thomas drew the sword from its sheath. It slid out easily, steel ringing, it blade seeming to glow a brilliant white. He gave the weapon a few delicate swings. It was lighter than he was accustomed to with the wooden practice swords, and a good deal longer, too; but there was a feel to it, a sense of balance and _rightness_ as he held it in his hand. Inexplicably, he felt a faint tingling at the base of his neck.

_If something like that happens again… will I be ready? _The thought sprang unbidden into his head. He swallowed, closing his eyes and returning the sword to its scabbard in a swift, hard motion. He tentatively clipped the sheath to his belt, marveling at how perfectly it hung at his side.

_May it never see true action._

"Ready when you are, Tom," Anna called in encouragement.

The prince drew a deep breath, and nodded. Immediately, the guards threw open the balcony doors, letting a wave of raw hubbub and excitement wash into the chamber. With a smile, his father motioned toward the open portal. Thomas forced his feet forward, heart hammering a frantic beat within his chest. The courtyard yawned beneath him, packed tight with people from across the kingdom, all cheering as they caught sight of their Crown Prince above on the balcony. The royal trumpets sang, the chatter below dying to an anticipatory silence.

Thomas cleared his throat.

"People of Arendelle, I stand before you today at the dawn of a new chapter in my life. Another year begins, one of new experiences and new lessons to be learned. I sincerely hope everything I am taught will help me to one day serve you, as you will serve me…"

The young prince fought the urge to cringe.

"Not to say that I will be _lording_ over... ahem!" The crowd stirred. Thomas gritted his teeth and hurriedly pressed on. "I also hope for the best for all of you, and wish you luck on all your endeavours. May this be yet another year of success and prosperity in our wondrous kingdom!"

"_Amen!_" cried the audience in unison.

Thomas smiled in relief.

"May the crops flourish in our fields, and the winds favour our sails over the seas. May peace and good fortune continue to define Arendelle! And may the King continue his victories over the King of DunBroch over the board. That last game was close, believe me!"

That drew mirth. The laughter was like the sweetest music to Thomas' ears. With renewed confidence, the young prince drew himself up.

"In the history of our fair kingdom, we have suffered through strife and hardship, setbacks and downright defeats. But not once have we faltered, not through fire or ice! Not once have we lost our integrity! It brings me great honour to be the future leader of such a great people!"

The cheering that exploded from the crowd was deafening. The swelling exuberance within Thomas' bosom finally burst in a wide grin across his features.

_Maybe this isn't so bad, after all._

"_Happy birthday to the Crown Prince, Thomas of Arendelle!_" shouted his father from behind him. The trumpets played their fanfare as the people applauded heartily.

"See, what did I tell you?" whispered his mother's cheerful voice in his ear. "What was there to be afraid of?"

* * *

"I cannot accept."

"I'm not a man who takes 'no' for an answer, Mister Erikson."

Tense silence.

"I will make you one final offer. One thousand five hundred Crowns, two hundred to be payed right here, right now."

A flustered sigh. "Anything else I would do! But _this?_ Who the hell do you work for, anyway?!"

The sound of a sack of coin hitting the counter. The click of the cocking hammer of a flintlock.

"I'm sorry, Mister Erikson, but I have already revealed far too much. If you will not accept... well, I'm afraid you are just a liability."

Gritting teeth.

"Damn you."

"So glad we could come to an agreement."

* * *

Skates flashed upon the glittering blue of the courtyard floor as people whizzed around Thomas like a thousand carefree bees. Some danced gracefully over the ice, others simply strolling by, still others barely moving at all, so fixed were their eyes upon their children playing happily in the snow. Chatter and laughter came everywhere at once, filling the air, casting an aura of lively joy over Arendelle Castle.

The freezing of the courtyard was a bi-annual event, held upon the birthdays of the Queen and her son. For two days a year—once in high summer, once in deep autumn—the people of Arendelle could relive the timeless moment of relieved exaltation after the Snow Queen had finally come to terms with her powers and lifted her frigid curse from her kingdom. It was a time for celebration, indeed, but also one of remembrance. For even though the people had never seen their Crown Prince conjure even a single snowflake, the suspicion was stuck firm in the public mind. Perhaps this boy, the son of the queen of ice and snow… perhaps he had powers, too. And perhaps he would be different from their beloved Queen. Perhaps a second supernatural winter would one day come over the land.

Even privy to that consternation, however, Thomas could not understand the sudden nervousness and evident reluctance of the people around him. Approaching children were held back by their mothers, who merely curtseyed and refused to meet his gaze. The men eyed him from the corners of their eyes, stiffening if the prince drew too near. Thomas frowned to himself.

_Was it something I said? I don't remember ever being _feared.

It was then that a particularly tiny boy sidled up to him, wobbling dangerously on skates much too big for him. The sight brought a laugh bubbling from within Thomas' chest, despite everything.

"Whoa, little guy," he laughed, bending forward so he was face-to-face with the child. "Need some help there?"

The boy promptly fell flat on his back, mouth agape in awe. "Your… Your High-ness," he stuttered.

The prince chuckled. "Thomas is fine." He extended a hand of aid. The child merely stared blankly back at his outstretched fingers. Thomas smiled in reassurance, tilting his head wryly.

"Come on, I don't bite!"

Finally, the boy nervously placed his miniscule hand into the young prince's palm. Thomas pulled the boy upright with a grin.

"You might want to think about growing a bit before using those skates…"

He got no further before there came a piercing cry from behind him.

"_Matthew! _Oh, there you are!"

An older woman of about forty rushed into view over the ice on unsteady legs, barely able to stop herself before she snatched her son up in a relieved embrace. "Don't you ever disappear on me like that again! You could get _lost_ in all these people…"

It was only then that the woman noticed the young man from whose grip she had taken her child. Her expression shifted from anger to shock in an instant.

"Your Highness! I… My sincerest apologies, I hadn't payed attention!"

Thomas turned his palms outward. "It's alright!" he chuckled. "Though I think I've scared your boy a little."

The woman gave a tentative smile. "Forgive my son, he's still young. Too curious for his own good!"

"Your… Your High-ness," piped the boy from his mother's side. "Why are your hands so cold?"

"Well, it _is _pretty cold in here, with all the ice," replied Thomas.

"An' is it true that—that you can make it snow, like the Queen?"

The prince's smile slipped slightly. "Of course I can make it snow!" he said, scooping up some of the cold powder from beneath his feet and sprinkling it over the boy's head. Matthew giggled as pieces landed in his brown curls.

"No, silly!" the child exclaimed. "Not like that! The _magic_ snow!"

The mother inhaled sharply, swiftly moving to silence her son. In a daze, Thomas held out a hand to stop her. The woman blinked at him questioningly.

The prince took a long breath. Though his own mother had never explicitly told him _not_ to use his powers in public, the pretense had always been there. From the earliest he could remember, his magic had been tentatively regarded as a gift, but also as a profound danger—even to himself. After all, people with such power would always be the object of fear and hate. Had he not experienced it first hand with Marcus Everett that dark midsummer's eve? And yet…

He rubbed his palms together delicately. A flash of blue light filtered from between his fingers, reflecting in the wide eyes of the woman and her son. Thomas handed the newly-formed miniature snowman resting in his hands to the awed child.

"Best play with it as much as you can, before it melts," he said with a wink.

The boy nodded furiously, hurrying off into the crowd, dragging his flustered mother with him. The crown prince was left alone with his own thoughts.

_That ought to spread rumours_, he mused, absently fingering the comforting weight of the scabbard at his side. _But it's what Mother would want, right? No more concealing…_

And that was as far as he could get before Christopher collided with him upon the ice, shattering his train of thought. Unprepared, the young prince stumbled backward, arms flailing.

"What in the name of… _what _was that for, Chris?!" Thomas exclaimed angrily as soon as he regained his footing.

His cousin merely grinned. "You seemed like you needed a break from yourself."

Thomas glared back severely, folding his arms over his chest. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Christopher rubbed his arm, eyebrow raising as his breath began to mist in the air. "Whoa, no need to get worked up, Tom! Gee, that must have been some momentous event I disturbed! What were you even thinking about, sulking around like that?"

The prince paused, then sighed heavily. "I don't know, Chris. That's the problem."

His cousin nodded gravely. "That bad, huh? It should be illegal to feel down on your own birthday, man. Forbidden."

Thomas chuckled weakly. "Well, you can take that up with Father."

Christopher extended a hand. "How about we go for a skate? Air out that musty mind of yours. Besides, Arendelle needs to see you with your new piece there." He gestured to Thomas' shining sword.

The prince shrugged. "Oh, I don't know Chris." Suddenly, his face split in a mischievous smile. "Think you can keep up?" And with that, Thomas sped past his older cousin in a burst of speed, flying across the ice in a gust of arctic wind, coattails undulating out behind him. Christopher was left staring at empty space.

"Hey—_hey! _Wait up, Tom!"

* * *

"Have we our orders yet?"

"Just came in. We got us a back door to the party tonight."

"Ah, so it's that kind of job, eh? Any specific way we s'posed to do it?"

"Nah. We just go prancin' in in these uniforms and bring 'em a little slice of hell."

"Trial by fire?"

"It'll give those stuck-up royals a good scare, that's for sure."

"Sounds like my idea of a good time."

"You got that right."

* * *

When he had been a boy in the ancient castle of the Northern Isles, Henrik had barely ever had the chance to interact with the common people of the empire. When he did, however, the peasants had always treated him with nervous anger and resentment. Looking back, his uncle had never been a very just ruler, aloof and thick-headed as he had been. The citizens of the empire had had good reason to be confused, and furious about the fact.

Now, however, it was almost as though the King of Arendelle's own subjects were _too_ perceptive. Though they were careful in their inquiries, the true subject of everyone's interest was painfully obvious to Henrik. The assassination attempt on the crown prince was the blaring question in the kingdom's collective mind.

_How did word get out?_

The King shook his head to himself. _Of course word got out. News spreads more vigorously than fire in a lightning storm in this kingdom…_

Henrik gazed out at the courtyard from his seat high above on the balcony floor, eyes searching the sea of people below for the figure of his son. He smiled when he found his boy whisking past the tall chiselled pillars ringing the ice rink, a mere streak of blue attire and platinum hair. Another taller figure chased after him with fervent desperation, but Thomas put on a burst of impossible acceleration, his merry laughter carrying to the King's distant ears. Henrik chuckled under his breath. The fact the husband of the Snow Queen could not find his feet upon the ice was always a point of great irony to everyone who was made aware of it.

A vision of his son standing atop this very balcony mere hours before surfaced in his mind. The contented smile faded from the King's face. Thomas was a boy longer. He was a young man, a prince. The future leader of his nation.

Abruptly, scarred skin flashed behind Henrik's eyes. The empty, hallowed expression his son had worn, dabbing at his own blood as if he couldn't quite believe how red it was. The raw screams that pierced the night over the cold seas home. He flinched at the memories as if they were carving into his very flesh.

_His childhood ended that night, _the King thought through clenched teeth._ His innocence is no more._

_How long will it be until even these moments of joy are but a memory?_

He lifted the glass of fine yellow wine before him, and just as quickly set it down hard upon the countertop. Some of the clear liquid sloshed from the rim, speckling the smooth wood beneath.

"My, my. How clumsy of you!"

Henrik's shoulders slumped, but he didn't turn. "Shouldn't you be down there with the people, love?"

"I could say the same for you."

The King grimaced at the note of worry beginning to creep into Elsa's tone.

"Oh, you know me," he said, trying to disguise his voice with false cheer. "I've got half a foot the moment I step onto the ice."

"That never stopped you at the Yuletide Ball." The soft weight of the Queen's fingers alighted upon the King's shoulder. "What's really bothering you, love?"

Henrik closed his eyes in resignation. "You see our son out there, Elsa? Before, he was carefree. Happy. _Light._ And now all of that is gone, replaced with a burden I fear will crush him."

"What are you saying, Henrik? Thomas is ready to wear the crown. Perhaps not now, but in time, he most certainly will be!"

He couldn't keep his gaze from his wife's face any longer. Her posture was strong and regal as always, but there was a glimmer in her azure eyes. A glimmer of those same dark emotions, mirroring his own.

"He is the Crown Prince, Henrik! We've trained him to lead his entire life! When has he ever given us reason to doubt him?"

"Never. He is the all we ever could have asked for, and more."

"Then what is this worry that plagues you?" She was getting exasperated, he could tell, but her voice was ever so gentle, so patient. But that moment, not even Elsa could bring a smile to the King's face.

"The burden is not the crown, love. The burden is _Marcus Everett_." The name dripped from Henrik's mouth like poison.

The Queen inhaled sharply, air hissing between her teeth. "I will not have that name on any of our minds," she all but snarled.

Henrik shook his head. "But we cannot ignore it, Elsa. Someone out there wants our son dead, and he knows it. It's corroding him, eating at his mind like a disease. Can you not see it in his eyes? The darkness, the _void?_" A tremor gripped the King's throat..

"He's gone. The little boy, the sweet, innocent child who stole the chocolates is gone forever, love."

The words slipped from his lips, barely a rustle upon his tongue.

Elsa's eyes gleamed with moisture. Her hand trembled upon his.

"What are we going to do?"

How Henrik wished to be able to provide an answer.

* * *

_***Whispers* Please revieeeeeeew.**_


	30. Fire From Darkness

_**Disclaimer: I own only my broken fedora.**_

* * *

**Chapter 30: Fire from Darkness**

The lively music of the band filled the ballroom, the violin dancing sweetly, the deep call of the tuba resonating through the very walls. From the white balcony, a lone figure stood apart from the rest of the pleasantly conversing partygoers, head bent in intense scrutiny of the dance floor below. His porcelain suit matched the pristine railing, its edges embellished with navy blue lace, a crest of three fleur-de-lys obvious upon its wide lapel. Passers-by shot untrusting glares like daggers, but the man paid them neither heed nor response. He wasn't here to socialize. The uniform was already attracting dangerous attention as it was.

His weapon wasn't on him, of course. There was no way he would have been able to conceal such a large rifle on his person. No, right now he was merely biding his time. Drinking in the splendid sights of the Royal Castle, enjoying himself as much as he could before the night was shattered. Before the other man came to force him unto this unsavoury endeavor.

_There._

The Crown Prince of Arendelle wasn't hard to spot. He stood to the side, chatting amicably to Princess Anna, the crowd around them standing at a respectful distance from the two as if there were some physical force keeping them back. The King was upon the dance floor, the Queen sitting on the sidelines, trying to smother her laughter under a mask of seriousness.

A shoulder jostled his, its owner not even pausing in apology. The sniper frowned. He didn't belong here. Not among these elite, or the rest of these townspeople who had painstakingly dredged up their best dresses and suits to mingle amidst them. This was a place of happiness, a time of celebration. He wasn't part of this crowd.

People continued to gawk and whisper around him, shooting suspicious glances and pointing accusatory fingers in his direction. For not the first time, the sniper cursed the odious task that had been forced upon him. From what he had seen, the royalty of Arendelle were just and fit to rule. They didn't deserve this adversity he was about to perpetrate.

What was even more horrifying were the orders his mysterious employer had given.

"_Make sure they see you after you take the shot. Make sure they see that uniform."_

Someone was trying very hard to frame the Southern Isles of assassination; that much was obvious. But were _he_ to be captured… well, the short-term consequences of that murder would certainly fall upon _him_. And though he had never witnessed the Snow Queen use her powers anything but benevolently, it did nothing to stop grotesque possibilities of torture from flooding his mind in a dark tide.

Down on the brilliantly lit floor below, the music reached a lull as yet another dance came to its end. The sniper watched as the crown prince was pulled vigorously onto the dance floor by a younger redhead, who bore a striking resemblance to the Queen's sister.

"Shall we dedicate this next dance to the birthday boy?" the young woman's clear voice sang out. The crowd cheered and clapped. The ensemble began another piece with a gusto.

Something hard and cool made contact with his hand.

"_Strike now,"_ came a low whisper by his ear. The sniper grasped the narrow body of the rifle, whipping his gaze over his shoulder. Alas, his wild eyes settled upon naught but empty air.

* * *

The ball was going better than Thomas had dared to hope. His mother and aunt really knew how to plan a party, he had to give them that. Though there were as many foreign faces of dignitaries and nobles as there were the familiar smiles of the common people, Thomas had never felt so truly respected in a long while. The prince had always known the royal band to be quite the talented group of musicians, but tonight they outshone themselves over and over again, their music seeming more emotion than sound; a joyous and energetic ambiance to the magnificence of the ballroom, casting everything into the bright and comfortable radiance of celebration. It felt good.

The uneasiness of earlier still lingered, however. The party guests, though polite to near the point of absurdity, gave the Crown Prince a notably wide birth. So unanimous was their wary distance that Thomas could not blame it upon respect alone. Try as he did, the suspicion of something more sinister niggled at the back of his mind.

_What if it's my _sword? he mused, glancing down at his gleaming scabbard with a degree of chagrin.

It was then that Annabeth appeared out of the crowd. The huge grin plastered on her face spoke volumes.

Thomas groaned, rolling his eyes. "Before you even ask, _no_."

The smile on his cousin's face only grew at the statement. "How do you know what I'm going to ask?" she retorted mischievously.

"Because you ask the same thing every time we have a ball!" The prince folded his arms over his chest.

Annabeth giggled. "The Crown Prince _must_ dance in a ball held in his honour! There's a nice ring to that, don't you think? A ring of _truth_, perhaps?"

"It's only true if I concede," huffed Thomas. "Which I shall never."

"Aw, ruin the fun, why don't you," his cousin mock-pouted. "Think of it this way. All that training on footwork you got from Mister Raimund would be for nothing if you didn't put it to practical use!"

"I'd hardly describe dancing as _practical_," the young prince scoffed. "Besides, don't you think I danced enough in Corona? You saw me do it. Once is plenty!"

"And what about when you become King?" Annabeth ploughed on. "Just look at Uncle!"

"That is one tradition I would be happy to abolish on my coronation," muttered Thomas, though he couldn't help a smile of his own at his father's antics upon the floor.

"One would think you inherited more than just your powers from Aunt Elsa..." His cousin shook her head sadly. Indeed, the Queen of Arendelle stood at the other side of the room, a slim glass in hand, politely but steadfastly rejecting every offer to dance given her with the same apologetic expression.

"It'd almost be funny if Mother didn't look so serious about it," Thomas chuckled.

"It's horrible!" exclaimed Annabeth. "Did you see Queen Rapunzel during that ball in Corona? The queen should be the one _setting_ the example, not moping around on the sidelines."

"You'd make a fine queen then," the young prince replied, turning his gaze into the distance. "Me, well, I'm happy staying right here with the rest of the spectators."

"Oh, no you don't," stated his cousin forcefully, and before he could protest, Annabeth was dragging him through the crowd by the arm.

"Stop, Anna! As future King of Arendelle, I _order _you…"

But it was already too late. Even as the music wound down, Annabeth gave one last effort and pulled Thomas stumbling onto the dance floor.

"Shall we dedicate this next dance to the birthday boy?" she shouted out to everyone, raising the young prince's arm high over his head. In the midst of the fervent cheering that followed, Thomas growled in his cousin's ear.

"Mark my words, I will freeze your bedding for a week. Plus your breakfast milk."

Annabeth just grinned. "You'll come to thank me later." The prince made a fierce grab for her arm, but she slipped nimbly through the massing crowd and was lost from sight.

Thomas swallowed. The atmosphere was growing oppressively awkward with the sets of staring eyes around him. He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Ahem… Does anyone wish to dance?" he asked tentatively. There came a couple of poorly-hidden chuckles from the audience. Finally, an older woman with greying hair separated herself from the crowd.

"Very well. I suppose someone has to do it." There was a teasing light in her smile-creased eyes.

Thomas nodded, fighting to keep the rouge of embarrassment from creeping up his neck. The woman took his offered hand, leading him to the centre of the ballroom.

"Don't worry, Your Highness," the lady whispered kindly as the music began anew. "It gets easier the more you do it."

His reply was still on his lips when he was knocked to the ground by a powerful force slamming into his side. His ears rang with the crack that had exploded from the balcony above, then again with the shrill screams of the people around him. The music stopped with a screeching of violin strings. The cold marble beneath his body shook with a panicked stampede. A strangely familiar tang of smoke tickled his nose.

Voices reached the young prince's ears as if through wads of dense cotton, indiscernible cries of horror and angst.

"_It's another assassin!_"

"_Oh my God. Oh my God!_"

"_Someone get help! _NOW!"

In a daze, Thomas tried to push himself upright. Why was he so weak? His arms felt like leaden anchors. His head was spinning like a top from the bright lights of the chandeliers above. It was only then that he noticed his open palms had made contact with slick, warm liquid instead of hard flooring. The prince looked downward in confusion, frowning numbly at the cascade of deep crimson seeping from his abdomen.

_It's ruining my pants, _he thought, fog encroaching upon the edges of his vision. _Gerda… won't… be happy._

He slumped to the ground as the abyss of darkness opened beneath him.

* * *

Grand Pabbie sat motionless in the meditation pool, a great wizened boulder with a thick cloak of glistening moss. The light of auroras swirled and flashed above the troll's stooped head, flashing red and purple like the thunder of a brooding storm. The ancient creature twitched and winced, stony eyelids squeezed tight with invisible strain. Suddenly he gasped, falling onto his back as the auroras flared deep crimson, scattering into the darkness of the starless sky. One of the crystals hanging from the troll's rocky neck cracked, then shattered altogether, the glowing shards falling to the ground with a tinkling like iron.

"Bulda," the troll groaned, easing himself upright as if through great pain. "Bulda!"

The large stone at the edge of the Valley sprang to life, revealing a concerned, motherly face. "Pabbie! What's wrong? What did you see?"

"We must… get to Arendelle!" the ancient panted urgently, reaching into his cloak with a trembling hand for his crystal staff. "The life of the Crown Prince hangs in the balance!"

* * *

His skin was so pale, so devoid of colour it was almost grey. His hand was so cold, frigid as the bitter frost of winter, lifeless as the shriveled leaves upon frozen trees. But amid all the white was stark scarlet, seeping through the poultices enrobing his stomach, dried and crusted upon the fabric of his undershirt. Anna weeped by the bedside, her body spasming with grief and anguish. But no tears would come to Elsa's eyes.

She almost wished she could cry, if only to have some outlet for her own boundless sorrow. She cursed her numb body, cursed the way it locked her emotions in, building them to an overpowering cacophony in her mind. She dared another glance at her son's bandages. A lance of pure agony immediately impaled her heart at the sight, so poignant it threatened to burst in a ragged scream from her trembling lips. But still the tears would not come.

The doctors could do nothing. From what they could tell, the bullet had not hit any of Thomas' major organs, only lodged deep in his flesh. Alas, whenever anyone attempted to remove the iron ball, the crown prince's body would not let them. Crystals of ice lined the open wound, hard and impenetrable, thwarting every effort to remove them. But even they could not stop the bleeding.

Thomas' powers were killing him, in the most literal sense. And the Snow Queen could only watch helpless at his bedside.

There came a soft knock on the door behind her.

"Leave us," Elsa stated bluntly.

"We have captured the assassin," replied the hard voice of the Captain of the Guard.

The Queen whirled to face the man to find her husband standing behind him, his expression as cold and sombre as chiseled stone. "I thought you would like to interrogate him," Henrik said softly.

Fingers of ice gripped her heart at the statement, only to be blasted into nonexistence by tongues of roiling flame that spread out and ravaged her entire body, making her very bones tremble in its throes. Elsa took a breath, jaw muscles tense and taut. When she next spoke, her words were quiet and deadly.

"Take me to him."

* * *

The hard, craggly stone of the dungeon wall cut into his back. He still wore his uniform, accursed fleur-de-lys untouched amid a thousand scratches and rips. Blood welled slowly from a cut above his eye, trickling the sharp tang of iron onto his lips. Chains clinked as he moved his legs, the shackles upon his ankles and wrists biting painfully into his bruised skin.

A key sounded in the lock. The door swung open to reveal his nightmare. Queen Elsa of Arendelle, dress flowing out behind her, icy eyes glowing harshly with the barely-contained embers behind them. Her voice was like the arctic wind, a frigid whisper boding the storm to come.

"Who sent you?"

He swallowed. "Your Majesty, you must believe that I speak the truth. I don't know! He never showed his face, only threatened to _kill me_ if I didn't comply!"

"Who do you work for? The Southern Isles? Did King Mathias order my son's assassination? Or was it _Prince Hans?_" The Queen's voice was flat, unsympathetic, _uncaring._ It was as if his words hadn't even registered in her ears.

The dungeon cell was growing colder, and it wasn't his imagination.

A lump of fear formed in his throat. "I _s-swear_, Your Majesty! I have no idea who sent me! This isn't even _my_ bloody uniform!" His breath hitched. "_Please_, Your Majesty! Have mercy!"

The Queen's lip curled in contempt. "You are _despicable._ I will ask you once more. _Who ordered the death of my son?_"

His chest rose and fell, voice trembling with uncontained terror. "_I don't know!_" he pleaded. "Please believe me!"

The Snow Queen's eyes blazed with the merciless animosity of an avalanche. "And yet you still pulled the trigger."

She raised her hand. Screams of pure agony rent the cold night.

* * *

Startled townspeople scattered left and right in the presence of the two mossy boulders charging through the Arendellian streets. Horses screamed in their stables, chickens squawking and flitting madly about their pens in the passage of the two magical beings. Across the long concrete bridge the trolls tumbled, their arrival heralded by the rolling thunder of stone upon stone. The guards at the gates took up a shout of alarm at the sight of them, lowering their halberds in warning.

Pabbie swiftly unrolled himself to a stand, the crystal upon the head of his staff glowing a deep, misty purple, crackling with scarlet lightning within. The guards took a step backward in shock, fear showing in many eyes. The ancient troll raised his hands placatingly.

"Quickly! There is no time for pleasantries! The Crown Prince will be no more if we cannot reach him in time!"

The uniformed men shared uncertain looks. With a huff, Pabbie slammed his staff hard onto the cobbled floor beneath. With a blast of earth-scented wind the gates flew open with twin _bangs_, the guards picked up off their feet to land in ungainly piles at the sidelines.

"My sincerest of apologies," the troll stated as he and Bulda marched into the courtyard, meeting the phalanx of tense soldiers upon the other side with stooped postures and open hands.

"We are here to help!" called Bulda, rising once more to her full meagre height. "Prince Thomas needs us!"

"The Queen is accepting no visitors!" shouted one of the uniforms, waving his sword menacingly.

"Without our magic, your crown prince will surely _die!_" growled Pabbie, his words like the rumble of a mountain landslide.

Suddenly, a face peeked from behind one of the pillars before the castle entrance, her tear-stained eyes shining between curtains of strawberry hair.

"You can… save Tom?" Annabeth whispered, voice rough and scratchy from crying.

The troll raised his gaze to the young woman, the deep sorrow in his eyes reflecting her own.

"We can try." The crystal upon Pabbie's staff phased a deeper shade of red. The old troll frowned in consternation. "We must hurry!" he said urgently. "There is little time."

Annabeth nodded, motioning to the guards with a hand. "Let them through." When the men merely shifted among their ranks, the princess screamed.

"_Let them through! _Pabbie saved my mother, and now he's going to save Thomas!" Finally, the guards complied, stepping backward and sheathing theirs swords with a ringing of metal. Annabeth turned back to the trolls, a glimmer of newfound hope in her eyes.

"This way, I'll lead you to him." She took off at a run into the depths of the castle, two boulders rolling after her heels.

The halls were dark and mournful, the servants downcast and silent in their duties, barely even acknowledging the passing of the princess and her companions. Annabeth raced with heedless speed up the grand banister, skirts fisted in one hand, Pabbie running laboriously after her, his rocky feet like hammers upon the hard marble below. The princess skidded to a panting halt before a set of double doors embellished with sapphire frost patterns painted onto the wood, throwing them open with force.

The King of Arendelle bolted upright from the bedside, face hard and drawn, slate eyes gaunt with helpless grief. His gleaming eyes locked immediately onto the two short creatures at his niece's side.

"Can you help him?" Henrik urged immediately.

Pabbie nodded. "Let us hope my efforts will be enough."

Thomas lay still upon his bed, pale and pallid as death. His chest hardly rose or fell, and his breath came in short, sharp gasps. The King slowly slid the sheets from his son's abdomen, eliciting a collective intake of breath. For from the layers of dressing tightly wrapped around the prince's right flank shone the stark scarlet of fresh blood. The old troll shook his head gravely.

"I've seen javelin wounds like this in the field," Henrik whispered, his gaze faraway and unfocused. "The tips are made to break off and lodge into the victims. Even if the medics can take the spear point out, the wounds never close. The men die within the hour." A single tear rolled down the King's cheek. "My son should be dead. Why isn't he dead?"

Pabbie had his eyes closed, a hand hovering over Thomas' stomach. Abruptly, the troll's eyes snapped open, filled with startling intensity.

"Take the bandages off," the troll ordered, moving the tip of his staff closer to the prince's body. "Do it now!"

With ginger care, Henrik removed layer upon crimson layer of dressing from his son's abdomen. When the last bandage slid off, Annabeth screamed. She had steeled herself for the blood, the ragged flesh of the musket wound… but not this. Not the shards of jagged ice filling the hole like monstrous teeth. Not the veins of cold blue that crept outward across her cousin's stomach, faintly pulsing with muted light. But Pabbie only nodded sadly.

"It's worse than I thought."

A sharp mixture of surprise and fear was etched deeply into the King's features. "What… what's happening?" he asked hoarsely, almost tentative to know the answer.

The ancient troll plucked a glowing orange crystal from his necklace. "Those veins are pure ectoplasm, Your Majesty. In trying to protect him, your son's magic is _consuming _him." Pabbie crushed the crystal to glowing dust within his palm, muttering all the while.

"How could I not have foreseen it? I even saw it in Elsa all those years ago…"

"Foreseen what?!" Henrik demanded. "Speak sense!"

"All magical beings have this… this _failsafe_," explained the troll in a low voice, beginning to sprinkle the crystal dust into Thomas' wound. "I never had the chance to warn Elsa before her confrontation up on the Mountain, but had she been mortally wounded by those assassins, she would have suffered much the same fate."

"_What _fate?" whispered Annabeth.

Pabbie turned to face the princess, expression dark and serious.

"Inhumanity, Your Highness. The ectoplasm in his body will not stop until every last drop of his lifeblood is converted or expelled, and then… well, and then the flesh-and-blood prince lying before you now will be transformed into a creature of pure magical essence."

"But he would still be _alive!_" The King stepped forcefully between the troll and his son's bed. Pabbie gazed sadly up at Henrik.

The troll's words were soft, the gravity of them undeniable. "No mind can withstand such strain without warping beyond comprehension, Your Majesty. There are fates worse than death. Thomas would be no more."

The King stayed frozen for a moment, chest heaving, but then the fight left his eyes. With a weary nod, he stepped aside. In the resulting silence as Pabbie and Bulda set to work over the prince's still body, another low voice pierced the tension.

"Can you bring him back?"

The silhouette of a tall suit of armour detached itself from the shadows behind the grandfather clock, fists clenched at its sides like icy clubs. Sir Gingivere's helmet was bowed, the words emanating from the visor hollow and emotionless.

Pabbie's eyes remained shut as he continued to sprinkle glowing powder into the bullet wound. "I have not dealt with such an affliction in over a century, guardian. The last time I did, it ended in curse and bloodshed…"

Suddenly the troll raised his staff, the crystal at its pinnacle flashing with clashing forces of dark red and brilliant blue. With his other hand he snatched a clear crystal hanging from his neck, quickly handing it to Bulda before he began waving the staff in the air above his head, chanting a hymn in an ancient, long-forgotten language. As he did so, the powder upon Thomas' skin began to burn a radiant gold, sublimating the ice in the prince's wound into a vapour that was sucked writhing into the transparent crystal in Bulda's hands. The blue veins under Thomas' skin intensified in their own brilliance until it became nigh unbearable to the onlookers, the ectoplasm beginning to pour into the hole in the young prince's abdomen as if it were a physical substance.

Pabbie threw the last of the orange crystal powder into the wound, raising his arms high above the prince's body, voice crescendoing as he shouted chanted one last verse before bringing his staff smashing onto the marble floor. The sound resonated through the room, washing over everyone like a wave, every set of ears bearing witness to its inexplicable power. The magical lights warring within Thomas' flank abruptly winked out, racing in a flash into Bulda's crystal, leaving the prince's flesh black and smoking.

"Bulda's crystal can only contain the ice for so long!" Pabbie shouted. "We must focus the magic, spend it before it consumes him!" The troll looked balefully to the King, an ancient authority filling his voice. "Wound him. Mortally."

It was as if time itself had ceased to flow. Henrik's face hung suspended in an expression of utter disbelief. The crystal in Bulda's hands sizzled and flashed, cracks appearing across its shining surface. But then, before anyone could even fully comprehend the action, Sir Gingivere unsheathed his sword and marched stiffly up to the bed. Annabeth barely had the chance to cry out before the knight of ice ran his master through in a single mechanical motion.

Thomas' eyes snapped open, irises glowing with impossible luminance, and he screamed.

* * *

From the cold, unknowable void flared a light, a pulse of something more, bringing definition to the darkness, filling his mind, spreading warmth within his bosom. But with the warmth came a gelid agony, flashing pain through his stomach as the chill of death and loss snaked through his lifeless limbs, twisting inwards toward the blazing heat of his heart.

Gradually, over timeless time, the warmth intensified to unbearable fire, and the ice became soothing, uplifting, coursing through his veins in waves of cold power. The darkness faded into the background as the point of light grew, brightening until there was not a corner of the void left dark. He drifted in the comforting ambiance, content and carefree, basking in his element.

But then that which flowed through him suddenly shifted, and from the light there came a stream, an unstoppable flood of knowledge inundating his mind. Shapes, numbers, concepts, _universes_ pulsed between his temples like the ceaseless beat of an invisible hammer—the past, the future, strings, quarks, quanta, atoms splitting, lightning sparking from beneath the ground, towering pillars that pierced the clouds, the drone of vast metal wings as the earth burned beneath their passing. Things that were, things to be, things that could never _possibly_ be…

The light was blinding, burning within his muscles, melting through his bones, searing itself into his very soul. He had no eyes, but still he tried to squint, to do _something _to stop the inferno of sheer _everything_ funneling its essence into him. He had no mouth, but still he strained to scream, to cry out from the infinite agony gripping his mind as it staggered under the weight of worlds. He could feel himself slipping, his very being vapourizing into the bleak chaos of the white fire.

And suddenly it all stopped. He could feel his body again, feel the pain flaring from the wound within his abdomen. The sensation was almost refreshing in its mellow insignificance.

_My name is Thomas of Arendelle_, he chanted to himself. _My name is Thomas. I am _Thomas of Arendelle_._

Slowly, the white light began to fade from his mind. In the back of his consciousness, however, he could still feel it, feel the power straining against whatever had momentarily contained it, straining to break free so it could course through his being once more. The need for escape was overpowering. Yet his body would not move.

And then something hard and sharp stabbed deep into his stomach. This time, he did scream.

* * *

_**The nature of magic has always been ambiguous to me. On one hand, it begs to be made sense of; on the other, once rhyme or reason is finally found, it ceases to be **_**magic**_**. However, I've always looked with some disdain on the childish notions of fairy dust and sparkles, and particularly the excuse of "just because" to explain everything. In order to make such magic truly interesting and powerful, I like regarding it as a tesseract; with definite order in the chaos, yet impossible for us to comprehend in its fullness.**_

_**All this, of course, is just a really convoluted way of begging for reviews.**_


	31. Tears of the Storm

_**Disclaimer: You know the drill.**_

* * *

**Chapter 31: Tears of the Storm**

Scarlet flecked the hem of her dress, gleaming under the cold, clinical light of the moon filtering in from the small dungeon window. The smell of iron was suffocating, threatening to upend whatever remained in her stomach. The ice was everywhere. Crawling up the walls in vines of hoarfrost. Coating the ground in a shining layer of half-frozen slow. Jutting from the blue bricks in massive metre-long spears. Spears slicked red with coagulating blood.

She'd killed the man. Impaled him, ripped his ribcage apart, torn his body asunder without hesitation, without mercy. But now as the red finally began to fade from her vision, the atrocity of what she had just done crashed down upon Elsa in a crushing cascade of sheer horror. She lowered her gaze to her trembling hands. The skin was smooth and pale as the snow, fingers seeming so slender and innocuous. The hands of a woman. The hands of a murderer.

A sob of self-loathing rose in a lump from her throat, the weight of it bringing her to her knees. _What have I done? I _killed _him!_

And then the tears came at last, her sorrow and grief spilling into the emptiness where single-minded fury had reigned moments before. Frost spread down her cheeks, beads of steaming ice falling to the dungeon floor with the light tinkling of glass. Wretched sobs wracked her body, but no sound would escape her lips. Her suffering would be her own. Just as she deserved…

It was then that she felt it. A sort of wrenching in her gut, distinct from her own emotions, bringing with it a hollowness that left her doubled over, gasping for air. And suddenly she _knew_. The incapacitating grief within was effaced in a second, replaced with an urgency that had her flying to her feet.

She was already halfway up the staircase to the first floor when her son's piercing scream carried to her ears.

Henrik was very much in shock. He stood aghast, rooted to the spot by the sight of his son's half-upright body, blood running freely onto the pristine white of the sheets beneath, fountaining from the hole where Sir Gingivere's icy blade had run it so cleanly through. Thomas' chest jerked spasmodically, his mouth agape, gasping for breath like a fish deprived of water. The boy's scream still rang through the King's mind, echoing like the remnants of a horrid nightmare. Only this was all too real.  
"Bulda! Break the crystal!" Pabbie shouted frantically. "Release the magic back into him!"

There was a clear shattering sound as the other troll threw the glowing vessel to the marble floor. A harsh wind swept across the chamber, sharp and cold as a mountain gale, sending Henrik and Annabeth staggering away from the point of impact. From the shards of Bulda's crystal rose a sceptre of light, seeming to the King like the embers from a flame—but these shone with the azure power of lightning. They sparked and fizzed with magical luminance, floating in space for a timeless moment before flitting into Thomas' gaping wound as if drawn by some invisible force.

With a flash, the ectoplasm spread into the prince's body in a pulse of blinding light, shining through his crimson-stained shirt, burning from under his very skin. With the flare came a soft crackling, akin to stepping upon a mound of autumn leaves. The bedsheets rippled from the winds as Thomas was lifted nearly a metre above his bed, his body hanging suspended in the air, his tattered clothes undulating around him. Finally, in a last blast of wind, the light dissipated from Thomas' skin, the boy flopping limply back onto the mattress like a puppet who'd abruptly broken his strings.

Henrik couldn't help but utter a gasp. For his son's stomach was smooth and unblemished, bearing no trace or scar of the bullet that had penetrated it mere hours before. An air of bitter cold emanated from the bed, frost glistening down the wooden supports of its frame. Thomas himself lay utterly still, hair white as arctic snow, lips closed, chest neither rising nor falling. The King found himself scarcely able to breathe.

_Is he alive?_ He couldn't bring himself to utter the words.

Thomas coughed weakly. There came a collective exhale of sheer relief. Time began to flow again.

"That hurt, Gingivere," his son croaked. "That hurt a lot."

"Well, I had to kill you didn't I?" replied the icy knight, his voice almost piercing in the dead silence. The suit of armour stood frozen, fists opening and closing in anguish.

"I… I _felt _it, Master Thomas. I could feel your pain. I could _feel_ how close you were to death." The knight's helmet dipped under the weight of shame. "I should have been there to defend you. It was my duty. It is what you _made me for_. Yet I have failed you again."

"Don't start this again," Thomas breathed, tone imploring. The boy's eyes snapped open, locking onto his creation with surprising intensity. "There was nothing you could have done, you hear me? Even you can't catch a bullet!" His tone softened. "And I'm still here, aren't I? Too worn out to be having this conversation, but here I am."

From the bedside, Henrik couldn't help a smile.

_He is strong in the face of calamity, yet he has strength not only for himself. He has a king's heart._

"Thank you, Grand Pabbie," the King murmured. "Thank you for bringing my son back to us."

The old troll nodded, slowly turning to take his leave. Bulda gave Annabeth's leg one last pat before she, too, waddled toward the doorway.

"Your Majesty," Pabbie called, one mottled hand already upon the door handle. "Stay vigilant. For the prophecy has yet to be fulfilled."

The bedroom doors closed in ominous farewell. The room lapsed back into tense silence.

"What… what _prophecy?_" Thomas finally asked.

Before Henrik had a chance to speak, however, the doors were thrown open once more behind him. He turned instinctively toward the source of the sound, and the sight that awaited him shocked him speechless. There stood his wife, her once immaculate dress torn and speckled with blood, her hair loose and coming undone from her braid. But it was Elsa's eyes that chilled Henrik to the core—twin orbs streaked red from crying and filled with a wild, half-crazed light.

The Queen dashed across the chamber, eyes only for her son, enveloping Thomas in a fierce, trembling embrace.

"I… I heard your scream," Elsa half-sobbed into the boy's shoulder. "I thought I'd _lost_ you."

"You know, I'm starting to see a pattern to this," Thomas replied in a weak attempt at humour. His mother only held him tighter.

Henrik waited the tender eternity before his wife and his son separated before asking the final terrible question. "Elsa, what happened down there?"

His wife slowly turned toward him, head tilted away, unable to meet his gaze. She rose unsteadily to her feet, and for the first time the King was struck by how slender her frame was, at how close it seemed to crumbling under the hidden weight she bore. And then crumble she did, falling into his arms, sobbing silently into his lapel, her hair carrying the scent of ice and dungeon air.

"Oh, Henrik," she weeped, her body spasming with anguish. "I couldn't stop myself. I wasn't in control!"

He stroked her hair soothingly. "The bastard deserved every last punishment," he whispered, a hint of hard resolve slipping into his tone.

"But I _killed_ him!" Elsa cried, voice hitching with her tears. "Don't you see?" she whispered. "_I'm a monster._"

Henrik held her closer, gently kissing her hair. To her words, however, he had no adequate response.

* * *

"So the snake struck first. Why am I not surprised?"

King Mathias' court stood open and empty save for the stiff figures of Prince Joseph and the Spymaster. The sovereign's voice reverberated harshly from the white walls, seeming almost to echo from the emotionless faces of his company.

"There was no way for us to anticipate his overseas connections," Jericho stated curtly. "Our own information network is a tightly held secret. No doubt the Duke's remaining assets are also similarly shrouded from prying eyes."

"Without a doubt," King Mathias murmured, low and deadly. "_Without a doubt_. And yet you _still_ allowed him to slip through our fingers?!"

"I am afraid that is not the extent of my news, brother," Prince Joseph interjected, placing his palms together carefully. "According to eyewitnesses, the sharpshooter wore a white uniform sewn upon with our fleur-de-lys."

The King whirled, livid rage written across his features. "_What?!_"

"The uniform does not fit in style or shape with any of ours except in its colour and symbol," the Spymaster placated.

"Arendelle does not know that!" King Mathias roared. "_Queen Elsa _does not know that! And now thanks to you blundering oafs, Weselton has surely shifted what was once a shared suspicion onto _our _lone shoulders!"

"We still have Everett," Jericho responded. "I have taken him out of the dungeon under a sworn oath of cooperation."

"A load of bloody good that will do," the sovereign growled. "No amount of evidence is worth a rat's tail if the Snow Queen is too enraged to listen to it!"

"The Queen of Arendelle _will_ listen," Joseph cut in firmly. "Perhaps not to us, and certainly not to Everett. But to your daughter, she will listen."

Deathly silence presided over the chamber. The King's hands were white-knuckled fists at his sides, his face frozen in a grimace. After a long moment, Mathias finally exhaled.

"So this is what it has come to," he sighed, eyes glinting with cold resignation.

Joseph nodded. "You know it is our last card. But by this hand we shall crush Weselton once and for all."

The King ground his teeth. "How do you know she will even come?" he demanded. "How do you know she will even _pause_ before opening fire or, God forbid, descending down upon us with the curse of eternal winter?"

The Prince of the Southern Isles smiled a hard, mirthless smile. "Ye of little faith, brother."

* * *

The candles upon his desktop glowed a diffused amber, their flickering reflections dancing in the cold blue eyes of his wife sitting across from him.

"I know what this is about, Henrik," Elsa stated bluntly, her hands folded neatly in her lap, back stiff and straight. The King winced internally. She never gave him her queen face. Not unless something was seriously wrong.

He sighed. "A sharpshooter bearing the insignia of the Southern Isles nearly shot our son dead," he said lowly. "They must pay for what they have done. Nations have gone to war on grievances far, far less severe."

Her slender brows were locked in a looming storm above her sharp azure eyes. Her shoulders were raised, tight with hidden tension. She was so delicate, yet so powerful, so utterly unshakable in her fears…

"I can't, Henrik," she whispered, gazing balefully up at him. "I just can't. I can't wake the beast again. No one deserves what I can do to them. Never again… "

The Queen took a long, shuddering breath, eyelashes gleaming with wetness in the candlelight. The King clasped his own hands on the table, trying to keep the gouges her words were carving in his heart from showing through on his face.

"Think, Elsa. What would our kingdom, what would _we_ be if we let this slide? The Southern Isles have made an unforgivable move against us, and we must retaliate accordingly!"

"How could you think of _politics_ at a time like this?"

Words spawned of angst and spite, but they cut into Henrik like jagged blades nonetheless. But the King of Arendelle was not one to back down, especially when he knew the truth of his own beliefs.

Elsa would never had married him if he had been.

"You don't have to go, love," he said as gently as he could manage. "But I'm sending the Royal Navy. This needs to be settled, once and for all." The King's hands turned to hard fists, a scowl of anger darkening his features. "Thomas cannot live like this. Two assassination attempts in scarcely three months? Waking up screaming in the dead of night, seeing shadows in every corner, death in every sunset? No, it is time we ended this."

"Don't you see?" his wife pleaded weakly, her eyes twin pools of boundless sorrow. "I… I _can't._"

"I'm not asking you to," Henrik said sadly. "But I will do everything in my power to rain fire and steel upon those who would murder our son. It is my duty as a father."

Elsa rose, swift and smooth, taking small, measured steps toward the study doors.

"Elsa," Henrik whispered in a desperate last effort. "Please."

Her posture remained poised and firm, betraying nothing of the emotions roiling within. She held her head high, not even flinching at his words. When the doors clicked shut after the hem of her dress, the King buried his head in his arms in despair.

* * *

Thomas' teeth chattered with the cold. He lay motionless under his papery bedsheets, the meagreness of the protection they provided suddenly all too evident. The frigid night air cut through the cloth like it was nothing, slithering under his skin, biting at his very bones with icy teeth. He shivered, finally giving in and curling up in a foetal position in a vain attempt to conserve the heat his body would not give. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around himself, his breath hissing out between clenched teeth, misting in crisp blue clouds in front of his face.

From the earliest he could remember, the cold had never affected him, never _hurt _him like it seemed to everyone else. It was just another sensation, as mild as the difference between the glowing heat of the hearth and the refreshing coolness of a spring breeze. It hurt now. He could feel tendrils of ice crawling through his veins, radiating through him with the pulsing of his heart, eating away at him from inside…

Thomas' eyes widened in abrupt realization. The cold wasn't coming from the room. The ice was _within_ him.

Almost in a trance, he slipped out of bed, padding barefoot to the gleaming void above his nightstand. Within the mirror was captured the image of a boy, platinum hair wild and restless, silken nightdress ruffled and crooked upon his wiry frame. Thomas leaned slowly in toward his reflection. What he saw had him jerking back, gripping the wood of the nightstand beneath for dear life.

His eyes were glowing. Within the slate grey of his irises shone fibres of blue luminance, faintly vibrating and flickering as if alive—a creature that had taken up residence within his very soul.

Thomas stumbled back from the mirror, heaving great gasps in mute disbelief.

_What… what is _happening _to me?!_

A constricted, whispering scream forced its way up from deep in his throat. His hands went to his collar, his eyes drifting down to the spot on his stomach where a rifle ball had ripped it open the day before. As if stirred by his gaze, phantom fire burst within his abdomen, white hot against the bitter ice of the rest of his body, eliciting from his lips a sharp cry more surprise than pain.

Immediately, there came a deafening bang as the doors to Thomas' bedroom were kicked open. Sir Gingivere leapt into the chamber, sword drawn, no less than a dozen Royal Guards storming in behind the knight, their sharp gazes lacerating the walls as they stood poised to defend their charge. Thomas fell backward, a hand raised instinctively above him, heart pounding with shock.

"Prince Thomas! We heard a cry!" exclaimed one of the uniforms, brow furrowed, his rapier clutched tightly in white gloves.

A pressure was building in the back of the young prince's mind, a ceaseless whine growing to drown out his heart with its deafening volume, a force expanding within him, pushing against walls and barriers that he had never known existed. His discomfort must have shown on his face, because another guard swiftly sheathed his own blade and bent down to Thomas, concern written across his features.

"Are you alright, Your Highness?"

The prince opened his mouth to reply, but what burst forth instead was a scream of agony. Lances of excruciating pain shot through his body, exploding within his chest, flashing an all-too-familiar brilliance in his mind's eye. He crumpled as if struck by a physical blow, futilely clutching his head, the consternated shouts of the men around him muted by the shrill ringing in his ears. He felt himself falling backwards, his hands flailing out to support him. Instead of meeting the hard marble of his bedroom floor, however, his palms impacted on jagged ice.

Thomas knew what it felt like to use his magic. It was a tangible force within him, an extension of his will, sending bolts of tingling sensation down his arms when he commanded it to awaken. This was nowhere near as pleasant. This was a frigid fire burning through his bones, a flood of power raging beneath his skin, pouring from his fingers with the wrath of lightning. Even with his eyes screwed shut he felt the shockwave, the floor shuddering as guards were knocked flying off their feet.

"Master Thomas!" Sir Gingivere's voice yelled from somewhere to his left.

But the prince could do nothing but groan, teeth bared in a fierce grimace of excruciation, body hunched over and trembling with the effort to contain the maelstrom inside. Unbidden to his mind came the likeness of his pain to the torment of a full bladder, only so, so much worse.

He could feel the lashes of tiny ice crystals over his face and eyelids now, rising in a cloud around him, slashing his skin with the bite of hurricane winds. Voices cried through the tempest, tickling at the edge of his perception, but their words were smothered by the howling storm. Somewhere deep inside his head the old part of him struggled to stem the tide of magic, but he had only his feeble will against an implacable tsunami of upwelling power. He yelled out in desperation, but even that sound was lost to the blizzard.

And then another voice pierced the cacophony.

"_Thomas!_"

The sharp cry of his mother, carrying to his ears as if from a great distance, tinged with panic and terrible fear.

"_Thomas, what is going on in there!_"

His father, straining to be heard above the storm, words tinged with confusion. A helpless tear squeezed itself from the corner of the young prince's eye.

"Mother, Father! _Get away!_" he yelled out at the top of his lungs. "_I can't control it!_"

Even as the words ripped from his throat, he felt another pulse ravage through him, unstoppable power seeping from a crack in his very being. The winds intensified with terrible cruelty, roiling grey clouds rising up in a ring of dense mist around him, flashes of light bursting within as they crackled with thunder. Thomas' eyes were screwed shut, his teeth gritted in concentration.

_Rationalize! Control it!_

But it was as if he were a mere bystander, trapped within his own mind while the ruthless magic coursed through him. And for the first time in his life, he was terrified of it.

Through the frigid night came a wisp of summer warmth; a breath of respite from the endless winter. Thomas latched onto it as if a piece of driftwood amidst the waves, grasping at it for dear life. Slowly, oh so slowly, the storm clouds dissipated, revealing the image of his mother at the doorway, her eyes closed, arms raised as if in silent prayer, the skirts of her nightgown fluttering with wind. Around her, the thick veins of frost dominating the walls faded away in gentle flurries of snow, the frozen curtains and bedsheets crackling as their softness returned with the thaw. The fallen guards groaned from their positions on the floor, and the young prince heaved a shuddering sigh of relief.

The harsh brilliance had faded from behind his eyes, retreating to the hidden core from whence they had so abruptly erupted, returning to him the semblance of control he had once known. But now he knew it for what it truly was—a facade. A _lie._ There was no control. Not anymore, perhaps never again…

The utter despair had him falling to his knees, icy tears coursing in rivulets down his cheeks. Somehow his mother had found her way to his side, and he collapsed gratefully into her waiting arms, his body trembling as he weeped into her soft shoulder.

"Shhh…" his mother whispered, hands stroking his back as if he were a mere child again, her own voice shaking with pained relief. "It's alright. It's over now. You're in control. You're _safe_."

The comforting words caressed him like the softest of feathers, but even they could to nothing to quell the embers of panic still burning deep within him. Because as much as he longed to believe it, he knew there was no going back.

The taste of acrid smoke on his tongue. The agony of the hard metal that had ripped its way into his stomach. Something had happened that night. The magic had healed his body, yes; but something else had cracked. A dam had broken within him, and he dreaded to imagine the magnitude of what it had been holding back.

Normalicy was shattered forever.

"What happened?!" his father was demanding, pulling one of the shell-shocked guards upright by the collar of his uniform.

"We… we heard a scream, Your Majesty!" the man stuttered, swallowing with obvious unease. "The men and I rushed to investigate and we found… this." The guard gestured to the six walls of the chamber. Though the terrible wintry nightmare had faded away, a palpable chill still hung in the air, a phantom of the deadly ice that had only moments before dominated the room.

"Master Thomas!" came the voice of Sir Gingivere, tinged with unconcealed distress. "Are you quite alright?"

The young prince sniffed, the power of speech still beyond his grasp. Alas, he could not even bring himself to nod. He couldn't stomach any more falsehoods.

"Pabbie," Henrik growled, features shadowed in storm. "Pabbie did this."

"No," Elsa returned, her words barely audible. Her eyes were unfocused, but deep within them roiled something terrifying. "Pabbie saved him. The Southern Isles did this."

At the name, the guards tensed as one.

"What… what are you saying, Your Majesty?" one of them asked, fists clenched tight with trepidation.

King and Queen looked to each other, ice and fire reflected in their eyes.

"Ready the Fleet."

* * *

_**It's been a month. A month is a long time, and for that I am truly sorry. I will not pretend that I was swamped by business; nothing would have been able to keep pen from paper had my muse actually intense enough the motivation. But alas it did not. I hope this chapter was worth the wait.**_

_**Upon the Winter Solstice is my birthday. Four days thereafter is the birthday of Christ. May merriment be with you. Always.**_


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